


In The Morning

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, The Midnight Crew - Fandom
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Humanstuck, M/M, Original Character(s), Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-06-04 19:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6671575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something's up with Slick. Droog makes it his job to find out what that something is, no matter how difficult Slick makes it for him.</p><p> </p><p>(off of my old account, there will be additional warnings and tags in the description to prevent spoilers)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Spades Slick Gets Mad (Per Usual)

  


Today's the day, the day they've been preparing for going on a week now. All the plans, the late-night meetings, the discussions and the headaches--they've all been building up to this moment. And Diamonds Droog, he's more than fucking ready for it. He was ready for it ages ago. Droog's completely fucking done with dealing with bullshit from Slick, with all his worrying and snarling and bad moods; those will come to a stop if this night is successful.

Droog's always been the fan of tactics, in comparison to Slick's reckless, get-it-done-and-get-it-done-now attitude, which is why the length of the planning period that Slick set up this time around surprised him. Normally they'd be in and out in a day or two, with Droog having to insert more practical methods in as they went along. But not this time--no, his leader decided to take things slow--which, as it turns out, is excruciatingly painful. Droog prefers improvisation over the trickling slowness, the arrogance and dogmatism that came with Slick actually deliberating for once. No, he only feels relief now that it's over, the fact that they'll actually be able to jump into the action jump-starting his process-weary brain.

There's a small-time gang, The Canids, that's been threatening to fuck up their entire situation. They've been usurping the territories of gangs of similar sizes, taking over and claiming the land as their own. From there, they've been undermining sources of power that Slick and company have, spreading their insidious roots out to the rest of the city as they crawl slowly up the social ladder into the ranks of the higher-up gangs. Yeah, they're not so small-time anymore. The past week has been devoted entirely gathering information on the other crew, the members, the hideout location, et cetera, and organizing it into something more feasible to undertake; There are around ten of them, as far as the Crew has surveilled, but there are three core members, the leaders of the whole operation. The mission: take the fuckers down, at least the three, before they cause any more damage to the city's gangs' system of checks and balances.

Admittedly, it's going to be a hard task, so Droog sees why it took so much effort to get the stratagem laid out. But he knows he could've done it in a more efficient manner. As always.

Slick would probably murder his second if he caught him shaving before the heist, but Droog's a man of class, unlike some people he could mention. Appearance is decidedly the second most important factor when it comes to intimidation, next to actual skill. With a straight razor, like one any decent gentleman should have, he cuts the hair on his face close to the epidermis, and though it’s barely stubble it’s removed it with skill. The quiet of the house swathes him in a thrum of anticipation. Shaving may seem unnecessary, but it's just what he does. This preparation ritual helps him to steel himself, giving him the proper time to collect his thoughts before the tension of battle.

However, tonight the still air is interrupted, a loud banging on the front door layering over the sole sound of water running in the sink. It's followed an angry shout, and a solid thump against wood.

Droog turns off the tap and wipes his face with a towel. The one fucking time all week he's gotten to get any alone time. The one fucking time. And there's his leader, ready to fuck it up--as per usual. _Why would I have expected anything different? It's not as if an hour or two before we go out is a reasonable request or anything._ Hurried now, as Slick's irate exclamations are increasing in volume, Droog exits the bathroom and makes his way down the hall to open the door, which is currently getting practically battered down. Is he kicking the fucking thing too? Calm the fuck down, you've only been knocking for twenty seconds.

Predictably enough, Slick's standing outside, face set in an almost comically exaggerated scowl. "You're fuckin' late," is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. "You were supposed ta meet us at the hideout a fuckin' hour ago, you piece a' shit."

 _What? No, that's impossible._ Droog's always on time, even early, and he knows the schedule back to front. Slick repeated it enough times for his head to hurt anyways. Seven pm, at the hideout, prepared and armed, blah blah blah. Reflexively, he brings his wrist up to look at his watch and in an instant his thought process goes from mildly pissed to very, very confused. "Slick, it's six-thirty."

"So fuckin' what?"

 _He can't be serious. Is he fucking serious?_ "Did you not say meet at seven?" _Multiple times? Loudly?_

"You sayin' I'm the one screwin' up here?"

"I'm saying that I believed you'd said seven."

"Well, I fuckin' _didn't_ \--I said six, and you're fuckin' late, so shut your goddamn trap and let's go." Slick turns and jogs down the steps, over to his car which he's left running out front.

 _Even if he_ had _said six, it hasn't even been an hour,_ Droog thinks as he follows, checking his pocket for his pack of cards as he does. It's there, of course it is--as if he'd go anywhere without it, especially on a mission of this nature. Now that Slick's already aggravated, Droog's looking forwards to this a little bit less. With Slick hunched over the wheel, glower fixed and angry, Droog knows that he should anticipate a lot of shouting over the next few hours.

And it starts as soon as he gets in the passenger’s seat. "Fuckin' asshole, that's what you are--if you weren't such a shit-headed moron, you woulda _known_ I'd said six and not seven." Droog closes the car door behind him and takes out a cigarette as Slick peels away. "And then you fuckin' try an' _argue_ with me about it? Don't even pass it off as somethin' else, you're just tryna pass your own shit off on me, as fuckin' _always_. Are you fuckin' list'nin'?!" Taking out his lighter, Droog sparks up his smoke before turning to meet Slick's furious stare. _Keep your eyes on the road, asshole._ "This isn't a fuckin' game, Droog--this thing is important, real fuckin' important, an' _you_ just _decide_ that you can _slack off_ for another hour while Clubs n' Hearts n' I all do the real work? I can't believe..."

And it goes on. And on. In fact, it goes on for the whole drive to the hideout. _And_ after they get out of the vehicle. Slick’s voice is like nails on a chalkboard, but Droog manages to keep his cool as they walk up the front stairs. Hearts and Clubs are already inside; Hearts, obviously aware of the tense situation, is silent, but Clubs is blathering away enthusiastically about some thing or another. Droog can feel Hearts’s eyes on him while he walks over to a chair and sits, that look of weary indifference on his face that’s typical to times such as these. The room goes completely silent as Slick storms in after. _At least that hare-brained idiot has enough sense to shut up for two seconds._ "What, and you think you're just gonna walk away from me?" he snarls. "Y'know--what the fuck ever, alright? We got a fuckin' job to do, and you boys best be fucking ready by the time I freshen up. And I fuckin' _mean it._ " A mean glare is delivered first to Droog, then to Hearts and Clubs. "I'll be back." And he stomps off to the bathroom.

The air itself seems to give a sigh of relief as the door is slammed behind their noble leader, but disquiet still lingers in the atmosphere. In an attempt to ease some of the tautness from his muscles, Droog leans back, feet stretched out in front of him. _This is a fucking shitshow already._ About a minute passes before he speaks. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do believe he told us to meet at seven, not six."

The two look at each other. "Uh, I mean..." Clubs starts.

Hearts picks up. "Look, I ain't gonna fuck with the boss man. But..."

"He just kinda took off, saying that you were late or something. I dunno what he was talking about, cause I thought..."

"We was a'ready here, so he prolly thought that we was here to meet 'im. I heard seven before, it ain't just you."

"No, no, I did too. I'm pretty sure, I think. We tried to tell him, Droog, we really did," Clubs says with an empathetic look on his face. "He wasn't listening though, I mean...Well, he had to have said six at some point--Slick doesn't really get mixed up like that, does he? I mean, I told him, but he sorta talked over me, and--"

Droog motions for quiet a moment too late. "What did you try an' tell me?" Slick's voice is lethally quiet; he stands with one hand on the doorknob, the other one running across his mouth. "No, keep talkin', Clubs. What in the name of all that is motherfuckin' holy did you try an' tell me?" A pause. "This wouldn' happen to be about the meetin' time, now would it? Cause it sure sounds like that was it."

Despite being stupid, Clubs shouldn't have to take the brunt of Slick's anger. Droog cuts in. "Slick, we're all here. Let's just come off it and get going."

The look in Slick's eyes tells Droog that he should probably shut up. "'Come off it'? How about how all your goddamn faces are gonna come off your head when I take my knife to them? How about that? I said six, six o' fuckin' clock, and if any a' you--" Here he twists to look at Clubs. "-- _Any a' you_ say otherwise, consider yourself fed to the worms. I am the fuckin' leader here, damn it!" He slams his fist on the table. Clubs jumps. The poor man is white as paper. _God knows how the bastard has survived this long in the gang._ "My word is _law_ , and you all know, _you know it's in your best fuckin' interest to abide by it._ " Another pause. "Do I make myself clear?"

Clubs rapidly nods.

Hearts dips his head slightly.

Droog's eyes narrow. "Crystal."

"Good. I shouldn't have to fuckin' say that every goddamn week. Jesus Christ, what a load of shitheads--you'd think I'd recruited you yesterday. Givin' me a headache." As if to exemplify the point Slick's fingers press against the center of his forehead, rubbing in a circular motion. "We're leavin'. Let's go."

As the three follow their leader out the front, Droog says in a low voice (disguised by Slick's stream of infuriated mutters), "What the hell were you two doing already here?" _Nigh-on got my neck slit for being there early._

"We were...uh...um..." Whatever color Clubs had regained backs slowly away into wherever it had come from. Droog scrutinizes his fellow mobster with the two chips of ice set in his skull. It's not unusual for the man to forget what he's doing at any given occasion, but the look on his face raises suspicion.

However, only a brief second of stammering goes by before Clubs is saved. "Pickin' up a few things. Fer the mission." Hearts gives Clubs a Look.

Droog decides not to press any further. _It is odd that Slick got messed up like that,_ he muses, moving on from the suddenly awkward conversation. _He's most likely just distracted. All this planning is probably just getting to him a little._ He scowls to himself. _But of course he has to be a dick about it. Oh, yeah, it's got to be a real fucking burden to be actually thoughtful for once._

He's ready for another cigarette already.

  



	2. Plan of Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Midnight Crew does their thing.

  


The drive is filled with further shouting. In the name of "makin' sure you cunts don't screw the whole operation", Slick harangues each crew member individually about their part in the whole scheme, occasionally switching back to addressing the entire team or just insulting them. Droog tries to ignore him; puffing on that wished-for other cigarette, he only speaks when spoken to (if you call monosyllables speaking) and tries to get a grasp on the composure he was gathering before Slick turned up at his front door. The chill of the fall air brushes against his hand as he lets the smoke drift out his slightly-rolled-down window; it helps to ground him a little bit. _This better go well, for all the torture we’ve had to go through beforehand,_ he thinks bitterly, tapping the ashes of his smoke into the darkness outside.

There’s no pause, no respite before Slick speaks once more. “A’ight, again.” Droog groans internally. _What’s this, the third time?_ He’s really managing to get on Droog’s nerves tonight. “Where are the fuckers gonna be tonight?”

“In a meeting at their hideout!” Clubs chirps, obviously not as perturbed as his companion in the passenger’s seat. Droog swears, he almost saw Clubs’s hand raise. The little shit would’ve had his neck snapped already had Droog been back there with him. _Hearts is a better man than I, that’s for goddamn sure._

“Righhht, that’s good!” Slick says in a faux-sweet voice that’s far scarier for the fact that it’s coming out of probably the most dangerous man in this city. “And _where,_ pray tell, _is_ their hideout, Clubs?”

“Uhh...”

“We’re driving there now. Does it really matter?” Droog adds in.

“Shut the fuck up. I di’n’t fuckin’ ask you.” For fuck’s sake. “It matters so that our dear, sweet friend Clubs knows where we’re headed after we’re done with ‘em.”

“Uhh...”

“Slick, stop. Hearts is going to be with him.”

“ _Don’t you fuckin’ tell me what ta say, asshole!_ ”

“Uhh...”

Slick fumes for a second. “Fine, a’ight. Have it your way, O Diamonds Droog the fucking almighty.” The man looks on the verge of taking his head to the steering wheel. “Their hideout is the place we’re drivin’ to. That’s as far as we’re gettin’ with that, apparently.” Awkwardness increases as the astringency lacing through Slick's tone settles into the inside of the vehicle. "Now, let's narrow it down a little bit ta see if'n we can get it through your thick skulls. Where you gonna be in the building, Clubs, Hearts?"

Before Clubs can fuck anything up with more filler words, Hearts puts in a tired "The back a' the buildin', boss. Through the alley-side door." It's recited, the exact words that Slick's been drilling into their brains for the past week.

This seems to please Slick a bit. "Right'cha are, Hearts. And what will you be doing there?"

Here's where Clubs actually puts in something useful. "We're gonna be blowing stuff up! To distract them!"

"Good, good. An' that's where we come in, right, Droog?"

"Yes," Droog responds absently. "We bust into their meeting room, you through, me from the hall, and kill everyone we see until the three are dead."

"Couldn't a' said it better myself." Slick proceeds to rattle off profiles of their targets, where they're taking cover, some more insults. "If we do it _exactly like I say,_ it'll be impeccable. Remember where you're goin' after you set the bomb off, Hearts?"

"Yeah. Warehouse north a' there."

"Right. There's no way in hell you asshats can fuck this up now."

And just in time, too. Slick brings the car to a halt, parking at the intersection they’d discussed in their plans. “A’right, we’re gonna split here. If this turns inta a mess, it’s due to your own dumb asses, cause there’s no way this can go wrong,” he hisses.

_Knock on wood,_ Droog thinks, putting out his cigarette on the side of the car.

After they all get out of the vehicle and make sure their supplies are secured, taking a bag each, the two teams disappear in different directions. Slick, finally, is silent, his horse hitcher on one hip and his Double Edged Sword on the other, and he occasionally touches them as if to make sure they’re still there. He’s in full game-mode with no space left for talking. _At least he’s upholding the stealth bit of the mission. He did reiterate on several occasions that we’re to be as quiet as possible until we’re in position. It’s still a surprise, though._

_And a blessing. I’m so fucking sick of hearing him talk._

The duo makes their way through the dimly-lit streets, keeping mostly out of site. Droog can see the building they’re heading to, just a couple of blocks away. Hearts and Clubs should be approaching from the other side, if they followed Slick’s directions. And hopefully they did or else things are going to get real shitty, real fast. Their swift footsteps almost seem to be enhanced by the crisp wind, but Droog’s fairly certain he’s making it up. So he doesn’t say anything.

Only a few minutes later they find themselves standing roughly seven yards away from the enemy hideout. It's a formerly-abandoned house, three stories tall. The meeting room is on the second story, and the goal for Droog is to kill the guard patrolling outside before entering the bottom level through the side door and making his way up to the hall outside said room. Slick's plan, however, is to scale up the fire escape and break through the window. _All the typical asininity, really._ But hey, whenever Droog interjected Slick would say something along the lines of “shut your motherfuckin’ trap” or “the plan is just fine the way it is and you’re gonna stick to it.”

So Droog got right on to keeping his mouth closed.

With a quick nod to Slick, Droog makes his way up to the darkened side of the building, where he can see the red fleck of someone else’s cigarette. The guard’s taking a little break, apparently. No, he doesn’t risk drawing too near--he simply circles around, simply drawing closer another yard or so. He peers through the dim lighting, crouching low besides a bush, then drawing his pistol from his belt; it has a silencer especially for the occasion. Man, with half the building being completely drenched in night, Droog was worried he would either have to wait for the guard to do a circuit (and risk incurring Slick’s wrath) or get up close and personal. But instead, the guard has the misfortune of being a smoker. Droog’s almost sympathetic. It could easily be him in the same situation.

And one, two, three--the pistol’s cocked, aimed at the glowing dot and the vague outline of the guard’s head and fired. There are no yells of pain, no angry shouts, just a muffled thump against the ground.

Bingo.

As swiftly as possible, Droog races over to the corpse, patting it down. It twitches a few times beneath his hands as the ground darkens beneath it. These facts are easily ignored as Droog double checks the status of its death (it's definitely a corpse, his aim is very good) He's relying on the fact that there will be another guard inside the door he's headed for--it will be slightly more difficult to take care of without alerting anyone else to his presence, but he'll have to see how it works.

He's always in charge of cleaning up all the messes, anyways; why should this be any different?

The brick of the wall is smooth against his hand as he creeps along it, gun held at the ready. The windows on the bottom level have been boarded up, apparently; there'll be no pre-planning on that front. However, something Slick covered and Droog got a chance to observe for himself was the entering and exiting patterns of all the gang members into the hideout. One knock, someone will peep out the little hole drilled in the wood and proceed to open it--unless a higher-up is there, in which case they will open the entrance themself. The hole's probably big enough for a bullet, to be honest, but Droog doesn't know that for certain, nor does he know what's behind the guard that'll make noise if landed on. Of course, his inordinately methodical mind goes over all these things, but that's what Slick told him to do and time's ticking.

One knock on the door. A tense pause. Someone inside gruffly says "What is it?" and Droog stands off to the side slightly. Shuffling footsteps, moving up to the door. He turns to see an eye pressed against the hole, and he puts the tip of the gun into it and shoots before the person can yell.

A wince crosses his face as he hears the crack of the door's wood getting splintered and flattens himself against the bricks. There's no noise from the other side of the door, but he can't tell what's going on in the upstairs. After a seemingly endless minute there's no activity, and in addition Slick radios in. "I'm in place. Droog, hurry your goddamn slow ass up." A quick look up and to the right confirms Slick's report, his small figure looking even more diminutive a story up from Droog's position.

"I'm working on it," Droog hisses back, feeling his back pocket. Slick's a better lockpick than he, but he's still got a fair hand at it--which he proves by pulling out his kit and getting lock open in a fairly short amount of time. Upon opening the door, he sees the stairs (his next destination) at the far wall, as well as a door to his left, leading to the room that Clubs and Hearts will be working on dynamiting the shit out of. Stepping over the second dead body (gingerly, so as to not get blood on his shoes) he stealths his way up to the next floor. It leads to a long hall, one wall against the outside and the other sporting three doors. The second is the meeting room, and thankfully the door is closed. Now with a new eagerness he goes to the end of the hallway, to the area cast in shadows at the base of the next staircase leading up.

Finally. He’s in position.

Grabbing his walkie, he makes sure to speak underneath the murmur of serious tones coming from the meeting. “I’m there. Hearts and Clubs?”

A grunt of acknowledgement from Hearts, and a chirrup from Clubs.

“Aight fellas. You know what to do. Bombs away,” Slick commands.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  End Notes:
> 
> i apologize sincerely for boring written action/holes in plan/redundancies  
> i really just wanted to move the damn plot along
> 
> ADDENDUM: -CRIES AT SERIOUS TYPOS-


	3. In Which Doors Save Lives And Make People Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a hitch in the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~WARNING~ for those easily grossed out, bodily fluids coming right up, violence n stuff

  


The seconds tick by. A drop of sweat slides down Droog’s brow. The air seems to be stifling, oozing around him in a thick, viscous river of suspense. If something goes wrong, Slick will have their heads for it. Hell, they could all die. His life, his sanity, all of it--it’s all being balanced right now, atop a gravely leaning--

_BOOM._

The explosion causes the entire building to shudder, Droog’s teeth coming down with a hard click against one another. Several loud exclamations erupt from within the meeting room and instantly the door is slammed open against the wall. The first panicked face makes its appearance, the person it belongs to not noticing the crouching predator in the shadows in their terrified head-swiveling.

Showtime.

It says in the plan that Droog fires the first shot, and so he fires the first shot. That first person goes down, the second person stumbling over them with a yell. An easy second target. With those two bodies now on the ground, the rest realize what’s happening and Droog ducks into the far corner before the first bullet can hit him. There he stays until he hears the familiar _swish-thunk_ of Slick’s sword. Now the Canids are trapped between a rock and a hard place, that’s for certain.

No one else comes out, now all targeting Slick; no doubt they think the other man makes an easier hit because he doesn’t have a gun. _They’ll learn,_ Droog thinks with a dry smile. However, this fact does make Slick considerably more vulnerable, so the ever-faithful second-in-command races down the hall and fires his pistol through the open door before ducking back again. The hope is that the remaining Canids (five, probably, but the ones at the door might’ve been hired) will see Droog as more of a threat and back out into the hall to try and make an escape.

Which, fortunately, they do. Slick’s right on their tails and Droog sees a decapitated head bounce on the floor. To keep them on their toes Droog shoots in their general direction, but more as a push to get them to head down the stairs. The response is a spray of bullets and a knife that goes whistling past him into the darkness. He presses up against the wall as several of the flying metal tips embed themselves in the door. _Thank God that it’s thick enough to keep me from dying,_ he thinks with an internal sigh. Luck seems to be on their side.

That is until after Droog takes another one out and he realizes Slick’s infuriated snarls and the sound of his weapon have stopped.

 _SHITSHITSHIT._ Now too distracted to aim properly, his next bullet comes nowhere near its mark. The remainder of the enemy thugs, now numbering three, are backing down the stairs, guns blazing. Briefly, he sees the face of one of the leaders amongst the three, but he knows that the moment in which his concern for his boss jerked him out of battle mode was the moment in which they lost the battle. They have the advantage now, and they’re smart enough to turn tail, run and regroup. Droog doesn’t care now. He lets them leave and as soon as the silence grows to be enough that he'll tear out his eyes if he has to wait to break it anymore he rounds the corner of the door.

As if praying to some unforgiving god, Slick's on his knees, curled in on himself behind the long table where the meeting was taking place. Instantly Droog drops to his own knees at the man's side. "Did you get shot?" A low urgency holds his tone tight, spiking as he sees the tremors tracing up and down Slick's spine. "Answer me. Are you hurt?"

"Fuckin'...gah, a-are they all dead?" Slick says, voice small. "Did you get 'em all?"

"You need to tell me if--"

" _Are they all dead, Droog?_ "

Droog looks at the trembling, looks at the face of his leader that's now slightly uncovered by his hands and looking up at him, the grooves that he's dug into the skin of his forehead. "No," he replies. "Three got away."

"Were--" Here Slick coughs, a dry choking sound. "Were any a' them one a' the three?"

"...One leader escaped."

There's a sudden shock that thrills through Droog's body as one clammy hand latches onto his collar. " _What did I say in the plan?_ " spits Slick with a grating vehemence spoken in such a manner that Droog fears not the anger itself, but for the effort it took for Slick to express it. " _What. What did I fuckin' say?!_ Tell me, pretty boy, did it say _anything in the entire damn plan about letting any of the LEADERS go?!_ " A rasping breath in. " _They were our **MAIN MOTHERFUCKIN' TARGETS!!** I shoulda **never** brought your stupid, no-good, **SHIT-EATING--**_ "

The tirade ends abruptly, the clenched grip against Droog released. Scrambling, Slick pulls himself up to the window he broke through and vomits out into the darkness below.

Would Slick _really_ have put the Crew in that much jeopardy by leading a mission while sick? For God’s sake, Slick _must_ have more fucking concern than that, maybe

( _he’s just as shitty of a leader as i’ve always known deep in my heart_ )

just an iota, a fragment--but more than that. He couldn’t really

( _be that much of a stubborn bastard_ )

be that heinously callous. It must’ve been unexpected, or _something, god damn it._

_You think too highly of him._

Droog’s mind is running away from him at about fifteen hundred miles per hour. He’s not entirely certain what to do; standing guard while drunken Slick pukes in an alley is one thing, leaving Slick alone (and occasionally fetching various grocery items) while he’s bedridden with the flu is one thing, but this is completely different. It’s _never happened before._ Sure, there's been a couple of occasions where he's had a bit of a sniffle during a heist, but never to this magnitude. And here Droog thought he knew Spades motherfucking Slick inside and out, like the back of his own hand.

No, apparently not.

After a couple of minutes, Slick shakily pulls away from the frame. Droog reaches out to him and he croaks in a hardly threatening manner, "Touch me and I stab you." He stumbles, Droog catches him by the arm and he snarls. "Get the hell away from me! What--"

Eyes narrowing, Droog grasps Slick's chin and wrenches the other man's face towards his own. "Don't you pull that bullshit on me." Their gazes lock for a long second. "You haven't been shot, have you?"

"No, I fuckin' haven't. Now get off me," Slick growls, pointedly looking away.

Before Droog deems it fit to release his leader, he grasps Slick's wrist and turns it so his palm his facing up. All along where Slick gripped the window frame is bloodied, a couple of shards of glass shining in the red. Droog picks them out one by one, despite the hissing from Slick, and makes it triumphantly through the small scuffle it requires to grab the other hand and do the same. There's no hurry; somehow Droog doubts that any of the Canids are going to be coming back to harass them tonight, not with the body count. "I'm driving you home," he says. "I'll radio you in the morning and you'd best pick it up."

"What?! Christ, I'm _fine!_ I'm not gonna--"

"Slick, shut the fuck up. We're going to go get Hearts and Clubs."

"I don't remember you suddenly becomin' the leader, asshole."

"Shut. The fuck. Up."

Slick is silent, but words enough carry through in his indignant scowl.

To be honest, Droog isn't actually surprised that Slick chose to not argue any more. The way back to the car is slow, painfully slow, and it's not due to Droog's pace, that's for god damn sure. Upon looking back at his boss he catches a glimpse of a pained look, the briefest of seconds in which Slick squeezes his eyes shut; it's enough to make him slow and walk by Slick's side despite the bitter look Slick throws his way.

The silence continues between them as Droog drives them north. Upon pulling in front of the warehouse and collecting the other half of the Crew Clubs is bright and cheerful, but Hearts picks up the somber atmosphere right away. All Droog tells them is that their mission wasn't completely successful, because he knows that Slick will absolutely rip his throat out if he expresses that the man had any sort of vulnerability in front of Clubs and Hearts. Especially if said vulnerability utterly wrecked the plan that Slick had so carefully crafted for all those days. Well, Slick would never admit to that, and Droog will say that he let Slick’s sudden lack of involvement pull him away from a job he probably could’ve finished--but how the fuck was he supposed to react?

Droog realizes he’s probably making permanent prints of the pattern of the steering wheel on his palms, but relaxation won’t come to him.

The streets are dead at this time of night. People in this part of town are smart enough to be cozied up in their homes right now, away from the hooligans and carousals that make their appearances during the darkest hours. It takes him no time to get to Slick’s place and drop him off. Without a backwards glance, Slick opens the door, climbs out and slams it behind him before going purposefully up the walk and going through the same process with the front door--he might’ve actually slammed that one harder. All three of them are quiet, the lack of speech gradually becoming colored with the grim air that Droog radiates. Eventually, he turns, looking back over the seat at his cohorts’ concerned and bemused faces.

_They need to know._

“There’s something going on with Slick,” he starts.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhhhhhhh godddddd i finished this at way too late of an hour  
> rest in pieces me  
> 


	4. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Droog has a little chat with Slick about his concerns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~WARNING~ comin up in this chapter: fighting and seizures

  


The next morning, Droog wakes up in a daze. It's one of those days for him where you don't know where you are, even though you knew before you went to sleep. A second passes before he realizes what's going on and sees that he’s in his own bed, lying in his own sheets, with his own clothing...haphazardly strewn about the floor.

He didn’t remember to fold them before he went to bed? Perhaps he’s more worried than he thinks.

As if to prove that point, as soon as he sits up his hand instantly goes to his walkie, which he’s left on the nightstand. It’s what any good second in command would do, of course--the action totally doesn't stem from any of the various thoughts that kept him awake last night. He told Slick he would as well, and promises have to count from something, right?

_You sound like a teenager._

Gritting his teeth, he goes to turn on the transceiver, and then he realizes that it's seven in the morning and Slick doesn't wake up until nine at the very earliest. It gives him time to gather his thoughts and prepare himself for the shouting that Slick'll at least _try_ and deliver. But the mere thought of waiting makes him dig his nails into his palms and wish that Slick wasn't such a late sleeper in comparison to him. It makes his gait stiff and he swings his legs out of bed and walks over to his closet to retrieve clothing for the days, it makes his fingers press hard and white-knuckled against the edge of the closet door, and, Christ almighty, he swears if he had hackles they'd be up right now.

In essence, he _hates_ it.

The next few hours drag by with excruciating slowness. Come nine-thirty he's sitting at the kitchen table, walkie in front of him and his fingertips tapping an impatient rhythm. He decides that he's had enough of doing absolutely jack-shit until Slick wakes up--and how would he know if the bastard's awake if he hasn't called him? He'll just go for it; he's fully aware that Slick is angry enough to not call him, even to yell at him or invite him over so he can yell at him. No use sitting around.

He clicks the transceiver on. "Slick, it's Droog." Waits a moment. No response. _Predictably enough._ "Slick." Nothing. "Well, regardless of whether you're still asleep or just blatantly ignoring me, this is me checking in with you, and it will continue until you respond."

A couple minutes of chanting into the walkie later, and after a particularly exasperated "Slick, for _fuck's sake,"_ his leader's voice comes through. "Whaddya want?" It's weary, irritated, sharp as glass Slick, but Slick nonetheless.

"A simple 'Hello, I'm alive,' will suffice. And possibly you telling me what the fuck happened to you last night." The words are out of his mouth before he can rein them back. Damn, he didn't mean to be so concerned, it just happened. So much for stoicism.

"I don't havta explain shit to you, Droog. Leave me alone."

Droog pauses, gritting his teeth. "If you're sick, just tell me and we can be done with this conversation."

"Look, I'm _fine_. And we can be fuckin' done with this conversation right now."

"No, Slick, no we fucking can't. Don't pretend like this isn't something worth an explanation." A stretch of silence. "If you won't tell me, I will come over to find out myself."

" _What?!_ No, you won't--I'll fuckin' stab the shit outta you if you dare set foot anywhere _near_ my place!"

Droog turns his walkie off.

There's no stopping to think. He just walks out the door and to the car. Well, technically it's Slick's car; that was the car they used to get to the enemy hideout, and Droog had been too busy shuttling people about with it at the end of the night to think about how it was getting back to its owner. _If he complains, I'll walk,_ he thinks towards the end of the drive, parking the car by the curb.

How predictable is Slick? Predictable enough that Droog is absolutely unsurprised when he knocks on the door to Slick’s apartment and--what do you know--doesn’t get an answer. Biting his tongue, he rests his forehead against the wood, cramming back the internal scream that’s rising up in his stomach. “Slick,” he says in that exact same tone of voice he’s been using all morning. “Let me in.”

What does startle him is the sharp thwack as the tip of a knife comes through the door about an inch to the left of his nose. He shies back from the door automatically. “Get the fuck outta here!”

“Jesus Christ, Slick--is it really that fucking difficult to turn the doorknob?”

“ _Leave._ ” The quality of Slick’s voice strikes him as being extremely uncharacteristic of the man that he knows, almost pleading...almost…

_Has he been crying?_

“Open the door or I’m shooting out the lock.”

A moment of silence passes. Slick knows Droog well enough to know that that’s an idle threat; Droog’s response to these situations is to get pissed off and decide it’s not worth his time. But after a second Droog hears the lock turn and then Slick is standing before him, red eyes betraying what he’d already heard in his leader’s words. “What could possibly be so fuckin’ important that ya come here, threatenin’ to knock down my fuckin’ door?” Slick inquires with a weak replica of his usual angry brazenness. “And if it’s about last night, then shit, you’re outta luck on the findin’-things-ta-worry-about front, because it was absolutely nothin’ that concerns you.”

Droog allows himself one snort of sardonic laughter. “Last time I checked, I was your second in command. If you can’t do your job because you’re too fucking ashamed to say that’s something is wrong, then I’m the one who has--”

“ _Me?!_ Not doin’ _my_ fuckin’ job?! You’re one to talk, dickhead! It makes me sick to think you’d have the guts to pull _that line_ on me--to say those fuckin words in _my_ presence! If you--”

“Look, look, look--Slick, I don’t want to argue, okay? Stop and listen to me for--”

“No, y’know what?! I humor you way too goddamn much, Droog! I’m tired of your bullshit excuses, and you think I’m stupid en--”

“ _What?_ What excuses?!”

“Like the one you’re tryna shove down my fuckin’ throat right now! The one where I’m the one to blame for the total shitshow that happened last night and then you come over here to try and rub my face in it!”

“ _Spades, for the love of God!_ The reason I’m here is to talk about what happened! I’m not a fucking idiot, I’m not going to just _ignore_ the fact that you were unable to work with the plan because you’re unwell and _don’t want to say anything about it!_ If that’s not ser--”

“ _I_ WAS UNABLE TO WORK WITH THE PLAN?!?” Slick shoves Droog, forcing the other man to take a step back. “MY ONLY PROBLEM IS THAT YOU,” Here, he prods Droog in the chest. “ _YOU_ DROPPED THE FUCKIN’ BALL IN THE MIDDLE OF AN ATTACK! IF YOU’D JUST FOLLOWED THE PLAN _LIKE I TOLD YOU TO,_ THEN IT WOULD’VE WORKED!”

“And if I’d stood there and done _nothing, you could’ve died!_ Is that what you fucking _wanted?! To die?!_ ”

“NO, _FUCK YOU!_ I HAD THAT SHIT PLANNED OUT TO A FUCKIN’ T, AND YOU! _LIKE THE SELFISH, INSUBORDINATE SHIT YOU ARE, **YOU HAD TO GO AND SCREW IT ALL UP!!**_ ” There’s a crack as Droog receives a good, strong backhand from Slick’s robotic hand.

For a second, Droog stops, but when the next blow hits him he hits back, fist going directly for Slick’s stomach. The skin is split in a nice line from his cheekbone to his ear and he can feel the blood dripping, but he doesn’t care. Their scuffle carries them out of the hall and back into Slick’s place, Slick somehow managing to push Droog back onto the kitchen table. Dishes go flying everywhere. All the breath is expelled from Droog’s lungs in one harsh exhale, and he prepares himself for a defense.

But suddenly, Slick reels back, gasping and clutching his forehead. Anger dissipates and turns to alarm in a split second. When Droog reaches out Slick doesn’t seem to see and his body curves into that familiar posture of last night. With a thump, he sits his ass down on the floor. “Slick? What’s going on?” All traces of the fighting instinct Droog’d had but a moment before have vanished as he crouches at his leader’s side. There’s nothing to break the silence except for their heavy breathing. “...Slick?”

“Droog.” Slick looks up, meeting Droog’s eyes. Sniffs. “Have you been burning somethin’?”

Droog barely has time to question what Slick just asked him before he watches Slick collapse.

Of course Droog knows what a seizure looks like. He knows about the different types, the different symptoms--he’s read about them plenty, heard about them just as much. But, in all his years, he’s never witnessed someone having one. And no book could ever tell him how fucking terrifying it is to experience one of the strongest men he knows lose control in such an intense way. If he didn’t know what to do yesterday, he’s completely lost now. But as if he’d say he was anything but brave and knowledgeable in this situation to anyone else, as if he’d say that he was scared to put his hand on one of Slick’s twitching shoulders, as if he’d say that he didn’t believe it when he told Slick everything was going to be alright in a low voice, as if he’d ever admit that the look in Slick’s blank eyes let loose a resounding horror in the pit of his chest that would proceed to stay there for the next month or so.

He would say that he was right next to Slick the entire time, though. No shame in that, right?

It ends after a few minutes. As soon as Slick’s muscles relax he lets his entire body sink to the ground, a sigh that carries the weariness of the entire planet escaping him. He looks tiny, fragile; Droog’s almost afraid that moving his hand from his leader’s shoulder will cause him to crumple into a pile of ash. Only when Slick goes to sit up does he move back a bit. They both sit together quietly for a time, the air filled with something that they’ve never had between them in this way before: apprehension. A dark kind of fear that clings to their skin like a cobweb and darkens their eyes, tightly wrapping and weaving into the very pit of their souls. A bit later, Droog look over. “Are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”

Slick meets his gaze and says, ever so slowly, “I don’t know.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE PLEASE INFORM ME if anything i wrote seems inaccurate or written out of ignorance! i do not want this fic to be shitty cause i didn't do enough research thank you my friends
> 
>   
> 


	5. Slick Quits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Droog has to be leader.

  


After that, Droog is kicked out of Slick’s house and Slick disappears from crew activity. There are very few check-ins--when there are, Slick speaks nothing but monosyllables. No plans are made. He apparently just quits being leader. Yes, an extremely proactive way of dealing with one's problems.

But while Droog realizes that Slick's condition is worsening, there's another acute thing that is putting stress on the Crew: the fact that a leader of the Canids escaped with multiple of his gangmates. Gang mentality won't allow a forgive and forget; there's bound to be an encounter, and soon. It's Droog's intent to ferret out those remaining before they can launch a surprise attack back.

Droog calls a meeting at the hideout a couple of days after Slick holes up. It's just his assumption that he's the new leadership right now, and he takes that role without a moment of hesitation. Sitting down with Hearts and Clubs, he gives them the rundown: some Canids are on the loose, be wary and watch your backs, changes in control have been caused by Slick's...illness. Clubs nods quickly, but Hearts looks a bit more...perturbed.

"So’s he jus’ fuckin’ _quit?”_ Droog is instantly more cautious; Hearts, while agreeable with his crew the majority of the time, is renowned for his temper. Highly renowned. “Honest? He jus’ fuckin’ _disappeared on us? We ain’t got th’ time fer this!”_

“Look, Hearts,” Droog begins in a low voice, “No doubt he’s as aware as you or I the situation we’re in, but there’s something not right with him.” He’s courteously refrained from detailing the incident at Slick’s house those two days prior, but he’s on the verge of telling Heart just so he can see the actual severity of whatever’s going on with their leader. “We can't wait for him, we don’t have time to sit around and do nothing."

“AN’ THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT SLICK’S DOIN’!” Hearts makes as if to jump up for a second, but, seething, he sits himself back down. It obviously takes every ounce of control that Hearts possesses in his practically controlless being. “Somethin’s gotta be _real fuckin’ wrong,_ cause the Slick _I_ know ain’t some kinda...some kinda quittin’ _pansy.”_

Droog knows that, as uneloquent as that was, what Hearts said is the absolute truth. He watches his crewmate with a tired sort of apprehension as he debates what to say. It's a fact that Slick would never do this, has never done this, and yet is doing this. It's sobering to truly realize the full weight of the situation. Leaning back in his chair, he speaks in a guarded fashion. "Look, you two know how serious this is. I'm not dismissing that...I believe that he needs space for now. I'll keep checking in with him, giving updates--"

"DROOG, THAT _AIN'T ENOUGH!"_ This time Hearts actually does get to his feet, towering above Droog with his hands fisted on the table. "Either he suddenly became more an asshole or he's fuckin' _dyin'_ \--Ya KNOW if there's somethin' really that wrong, WE GOTTA GET HIM TO TH' _HOSPITAL,_ FER CHRISSAKE! YOU AN' SLICK MAYBE FINE WI' JUS' SITTIN' AROUND, DOIN' FUCKALL, BUT _SOME_ A'--"

"Sit down." Droog's cold voice cuts through Hearts's building tirade. Angrily, Hearts tries to say something else, but Droog repeats, "Sit down. _Now_. Or I'll get up and fucking make you." Despite the fact that Hearts could probably tear Droog in half with his bare hands, the man sits down sullenly, albeit after a few seconds pass. Clubs is curled into his chair, eyes wide, as Droog flickers a glare of unimaginable frigidity over the two sitting across from him. "Right now, I am the leader, and I say that we have to take care of the Canid problem. Slick _isn't forgotten,"_ he adds, shooting down whatever Hearts was about to respond with, "And he sure as hell _is not going to die._ I'm not doing anything he wouldn't do, and you know that." _I need a fucking cigarette._ He takes one out of his pocket, scowling as he hunts for a lighter on his person. "We have to put our all into finding out where these bastards are tucked away, lest we all end up in the ground. We aren't dropping the mission. We can't afford to, not even if Slick spontaneously combusts or suddenly decides to become an acrobat and cartwheels his way out of town or any other bullshitty thing that he comes up with. And you two are going to _listen to me._ This is not a fucking democracy, and it's not up to debate. Got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," Hearts snarls back.

Clubs nods again, a finally-they're-done, as-if-I-was-going-to-not-listen-to-you look etched on his face. Droog swears he hears a little sigh of relief.

"Good." Taking a second, he lights up his cigarette, inhaling the smoke deeply. "Now. We need to determine where they're most likely to go in case of something like this…”

\---

It’s determined that the first place they’ll investigate is the enemy hideout. They probably won't be there, but they might've left something pointing to their next location. However, Droog knows very well that that’s exactly where the Canids will anticipate the Crew going. It will take a lot of careful crafting and formulating to make sure that he and his cohorts aren’t in a huge amount of danger.

This sort of planning is what he lives for. Meticulous, every aspect examined with detail, no possibility left untouched. He’s never gotten to have complete control over the planning process and, even though his concern for his leader is still gnawing at the back of his mind, he manages to drown it out with tactics. However, this doesn’t particularly mesh with Hearts’s own ideas of what should be happening. Loyal as ever, he doesn’t try to usurp Droog’s control at all, but his tone always bears an acidity that even Droog finds hard to deflect off of his stoic outer casing. There are constant comments about the time it’s taking to make a plan, the hypocrisy of Droog spending more time, leaving Slick to stew for such a long time, time, time, time. And while Droog feels the strain of those demands, he manages to dismiss them; he’s not about to have death on his watch, not for Slick to come back to.

But Droog knows that, without Slick by his side, he's going to have to do the detail work himself. The man may be reckless, but once a plan is made he's not going to disregard it. Clubs, however, forgets what they're doing half the time, and would slow Droog down if they were working together--and yet he needs someone to be with him to keep him on task. That's usually why Hearts and Clubs end up working with one another, cause Hearts is capable and Slick usually wants to work with Droog. That's the one time Droog allows himself to recognize Slick's absence.

It's a pain in his ass. Why the hell did Slick have to shut himself off?

About a week later has him putting the plan in action. The night is like pitch, the moon but a sliver of barely waxing light. Droog's shadow warps and turns in odd ways as he skirts in between two buildings. Once more he draws the card for his binoculars, as he's been doing for the last few blocks, and looks through it towards the top of the surrounding apartments.

Of course, there's absolutely no guarantee that he'll see a sniper. They could be like him, dressed entirely in black, tight-fitting clothing, and he'd never see them. By the time he'd hear the shot it'd be far too late. But this is the best plan he has, the one he's been formulating and perfecting the longest, and he sure as hell isn't about to let it go to waste.

Once satisfied that there are no shooters, Droog completes his circuit by running over to the top of the hill overlooking the enemy hideout. He squints, lifts his binoculars, crouched in the darkness. It takes several more minutes of circling to make him decide that the surrounding area is safe. No one's tried to kill him, no one's patrolling--it's almost too good to be true. "Clubs, Hearts," he says, after putting away his binoculars and drawing his walkie. His voice is low, a mutter, barely perceptible, but overly loud to Droog's ears after hearing nothing but his own quick footsteps. "Move in."

Hearts and Clubs, as they were a few blocks away, take several more agonizingly long minutes to come up to the building. Droog can see them creeping along the hillside, underneath where he's stationed. He looks around again; now's the point at which shots would be fired, if there were any enemies around. But nothing moves besides his crewmates, the building is dark and the land is still besides the wind. Droog, although he still has reservations, calls the two again and tells them to enter the building.

The quiet's starting to eat away at him; where before it'd been a sign that the mission was going well, now it brings a apprehensive impatience, waiting for a call to come in. He digs his nails into his palms. For all his internal complaining about Slick's poor leadership, he hasn't realized how nerve-wracking having complete responsibility for his team really is. Even though it’s only a couple minutes, it seems like eternity passes before his radio crackles. “Droog! Come down here!” Clubs says, his voice just plaintive enough to set Droog on edge.

The quasi-leader scrambles to hit the transceiver, a clumsy maneuver that he’d never allow himself if he was in the presence of others. Clubs says his name again before he can hit the button. “What? Is everything alright?” He tries to keep his anxiety buried and out of his voice.

“Well, um...no? I mean...”

There’s a rustling noise. “Droog.” It’s Hearts’s voice, reassuringly calm. “They already been through here.”

Droog blinks. _“What?”_

“They been through. It’s emptied out, the whole fuckin’ place.” Now a hint of sardonicism enters the other man’s voice. All that time. For nothing.

_We should’ve gone sooner._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's pretend like this whole chapter isn't terrible and like half comprised of exposition and fuckery  
> and also pretend like i know how to write for hearts  
> please
> 
>   
> 


	6. Double Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Droog goes and fetches Slick.

For once, Droog decides that things are no longer best managed by pretending Slick and his condition don't exist. He goes to his leader's house the following day, with Clubs and Hearts in tow.

But of course, the door goes unanswered, regardless of the multitude of minutes that Droog spends banging on it. Hearts tries for a bit, talking through the wood in a low voice, and then Clubs, exclaiming his worries in a quavering tone, but there’s no response. _Fucking Christ,_ Droog thinks, rubbing his brow as Clubs back away morosely to join Hearts, who is leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed. _Enough is e-fucking-nough._ Turning on his walkie-talkie, he gives his other crewmates a quick implicative look before speaking into it. “Slick.”

Nothing. Not even a monosyllable.

“Slick. Let us in.”

Nothing.

“Jesus, you can’t just hide in there! We have shit to do!”

Nothing.

A deep breath in. “We’re going to take down your door. You hear me?”

Nothing.

The walkie is switched back off. “Okay, Hearts.” Hearts, having picked up on the sudden ad-hoc plan, shoulders his way to the front again. There’s a pause where nothing can be heard besides the quiet aspirations of their lungs, the almost unwittingly synced breath in of preparation, before Hearts slams his massive frame against the wood of the door.

It’s unsurprising that the shitty lock caves almost immediately. Door now open, Droog takes the lead, stepping further into his leader’s domain. If it’s a mess usually, it’s a fucking disaster now; it’s clear that many of the dishes and whatnot strewn about have not been touched for the entirety of the week that they’ve not been in contact. In fact, Droog thinks that some of said dishes are on the floor from he and Slick’s skirmish. The extensive dirtiness of the house almost seems to carry an ominous air, the settled dust seeming to imply another, heavier weight holding it down.

With a poorly disguised haste, Droog hurries his way over to Slick’s room. If he’s anywhere, it’s there. He barely notices the other two following him. “Slick!” Without knocking, Droog opens the door of the bedroom, slamming it against the wall. The room has hardly any light with the blinds of the windows shut tightly. Everything’s quiet for a second, just enough for the sour smell of stale sweat and depression to sink into the Crew’s noses, and the noble second-in-command goes up slowly to the bed. There’s a lump under the absolutely filthy covers that’s vaguely moving up and down. _At least he’s not dead._ “Let's go, Slick,” Droog says, voice filled with tired exasperation--and he rips the blankets off to toss them on the floor, unveiling the form of their leader.

And if Slick’s room smelled like sweat and depression, the man himself absolutely reeks of it. He’s dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers and, judging from the sickly sheen cast on his skin from the dim light, he hasn’t bathed in a quite a bit. Such a spectacle would make many hygienic people gasp in absolute horror--not Droog. Instead, his heart gives the smallest of anxious throbs, which he covers up with one of his signature sighs which seem to imply at the entire world consists of idiots, excepting himself. Noting this, Slick looks up, squinting as if the duskiness were the blazing light of the sun. “Droog, what the fuck are you doin’ here?” And, after a moment, “How did you even get in?”

“What am I doing here.” Droog almost laughs. _Oh, I just wanted to make some small talk. Go out, get some drinks, have ourselves a grand motherfucking time._ He lets his derision soak through in the silence. However, he doesn’t have to maintain it, because Clubs comes up to Slick’s bedside.

“Clubs?” Slick’s gaze shifts to behind Droog. “ _Hearts?_ Why are you all here?” Slick voice is hoarse, but the angry confusion still seeps through.

“Slick…” Clubs pauses, unsure of what to say. “Slick, we’ve been so worried about you! We haven’t--

“There’s no fuckin’ need! I don’t know how many times I have ta tell you; I’m fine, and--”

“ _Fine?_ ” Hearts voice is dangerously close to boiling over to a shout. “ _Fine?!_ We ain’t seen ya fer _days,_ Slick! _Days!_ Edgin’ over a week now! And yer tellin’ us you’s _fine?!_ ”

“Do ya have a problem, Hearts?” Slick bristles visibly, which is definitely not aided by his sorry appearance. At least he’s managed to prop himself up on his elbows.

“Do I?” Hearts retorts with heavy amounts of venom. “Ya don’t even have a fuckin’ excuse fer yerself, ya sorry piece a’--”

“Hey, guys! Let’s calm down for a minute, okay?” Clubs raises his hands in an attempt at mediation. “All there is to it is that we were worried! We don’t know what’s going on with you, but you were just gone! All we had was Droog to tell us you were...you were sick, or someth--”

“What did you tell them?” Voice deadly and low, Slick’s eyes turn towards his second.

Hearts interjects again. “We barely know anythin’, Slick--all I fuckin’ know is ya ain’t doin’ yer fuckin’ job. If Droog has ta--”

“No! Fuck this pansy bullshit, get the fuck outta my house!”

“We ain’t leavin’ wi’out ya doin’ some fuckin’ explainin’, so you ain’t such a pisspoor--”

“ _What?! Get off my property!”_

“Stop it, you two!” Clubs’s plaintive cry rises up through the arguing voices.

“Clubs, stay outta this.” warns Hearts.

“And then fuckin’ _LEAVE!”_ snarls Slick.

“ _TELL US WHAT’S GOIN’ ON!”_

Droog’s been observing quietly from the corner this whole time. Now he steps in. “Stop.” His voice is laced with anger, and is powerful and authoritative enough to halt the argument in its tracks. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Slick,” he looks over at the man, “If you’re off enough to stay out of circuit for seven days, _with our enemies still out there,_ then we, as your crew, need to find a way to remedy that. I have decided that all of us-- _including you_ \--are going to the hospital to get you examined. And do not--” Here he cuts off a protest. “--do _not_ try and stay here.” There’s a period of insolent silence as the leader and his second-in-command glare daggers into one another. “We leave now,” Droog concludes. “Get dressed.”

\---

It’s probably the most dismal drive that Droog’s ever had the pleasure of conducting. He has to keep telling Hearts to shut up, and preventing Slick from spewing bullshit excuses, and as soon as those two are done fucking yapping the car is filled with a hush of such acerbity that he’d not sure if the arguing is better or not. Though it’s dreaded, Droog sees the hospital and regards it with an exhausted appreciation. _Finally. I get to get out of this hell._

And when they do pull up in the parking lot, the cover of grey in the sky casting a pallid sheet up on them, Slick says not a word. He’s quiet all the way up to the front door of the towering building, and into the waiting room, and while Droog checks in and explains at the front desk. He’s even quiet when Droog comes back to sit by him, amidst the coughing and crying and noises of utter misery. The other three stare at the floor, ceiling, anything to avoid looking at their leader, but not Slick. His gaze burns holes into nothingness, his silence speaking as much as thousands of words could.

After about a half hour of waiting (“quickly,” as for the serious cases), Slick is summoned by a doctor. All four of them get up and follow in a sort of synchronization that’s not realized, ingrained into them by years of rising from adjacent seats to one another. It’s enough of a beautiful gesture that several waiting patients watch the Crew leave.

And when they arrive at the examination room, Droog makes the automatic move, one just as ingrained, to enter the room at Slick’s shoulder. Immediately the shorter man stops. “You three wait out here,” he says, voice a painful mixture of weary and bitter. “I’m no fuckin’ child.” The unspoken _I don’t need you_ is enough to halt all three of them in their tracks. Not only halt them, and send them slinking away to the waiting room of this wing. No use in skulking around if Slick didn’t want them there.

Of course, they know that it’s bound to be an even longer wait this time around. Clubs tentatively proposes a game of Twenty Questions when another fifteen minutes have passed, which Hearts patiently accepts. _As said before, Hearts is a better man than I,_ Droog thinks. Then his immediate next thought is, _I wish I could smoke inside._ Which has been a recurring one. There’s nothing he can do after he fills out some papers, he just sits there. Minutes tick by, the craving growing stronger, his fingers tapping while he looks down at his lap with teeth gritted. Even the low murmur of his companions’ voices starts to grate on his nerves, and the buzz of the fluorescent lights, and the sound of his own fucking smokeless exhalations. Everything that’s been happening in this last stretch of time and he can’t even fall on his one guilty pleasure? The hand of some twisted deity must be at work here.

He can’t take it--he has to get a cigarette in his mouth. Perseverance be damned. With one vague “I’m going to smoke” thrown in Hearts and Clubs’s general direction, he finds the quickest way to the outdoors and plants himself under the nearest “No Smoking” sign. And there he stays for the next ten minutes, taking his good, sweet, motherfucking time before going back into that hellhole. It’s getting on in the afternoon now, but there’s no warmth, only a chill wind that sweeps across his face and makes his cigarette burn out faster. Talk about ominous.

So goes his next several hours. After the first smoke, he figures his way back in (which involves a lot of holding doors open after hospital staff have gone through so he doesn’t have to ask someone to hit the button for him), and a bit later he goes back out, and so on and so forth. There’s more than once when Droog returns to find that Hearts and Clubs are gone, only to learn that they’ve been moved to a different waiting room in accordance to whatever is happening with Slick. So he’ll find them, and then go back outside, and thus the cycle continues. He doesn’t really give a shit about what’s thought of him, or if he’ll get in trouble for smoking, or anything, really. He just wants this day to be over. And it just doesn’t seem to want to fucking end.

It’s dark out, and much colder than it was before, when Slick is finally released. Droog’s about to come in from his umpteenth cigarette when he sees his Crew exiting through another door. He hurries to catch up with them. The silence is different this time, something nastier and darker and more foreboding, filled with despair. They don’t talk on the way to the car, but once they get in Droog turns to the passenger’s seat, where Slick is just sitting down. “Is there a diagnosis?” he inquires, and for the first time in his life his voice comes out colder than he’d intended it to.

At first Slick speaks too quietly for Droog to hear, and when he speaks up, his voice is hoarse. “They’ll call.”

And that’s it. Nothing else. Droog stays his tumultuous emotions for the sake of sparing his leader ( _we’ve all been through enough today_ ), but that answer is highly unsatisfactory. As he drives, he finds himself going to Hearts’s house first; any sort of argumentative element needs to get out of this car. The big asshole’s falling asleep, but still. After Hearts is dropped off, then it’s Clubs, and then, though Droog is reluctant to pull up, it’s Slick. With a sigh, he turns off the car. “Slick,” he hushedly says, his tone almost a sigh in itself. Just that one word, but it carries enough implications and layers with it that he’s certain he’ll get an answer.

But he doesn’t. And when he looks over, he sees his leader looking down at his folded hands, looking smaller than Droog’s ever seen him look.

“Jack, tell me what’s going on.”

And instead of snarling at the use of his old name, Slick’s eyes squeeze shut, a tear startlingly enough running its way down his sharp nose. It takes a moment, but he speaks at long last. “They think…” He swallows hard. “Fuck, Diamonds, they think somethin’s actually wrong with me. And not an easy fuckin’ fix.”

Though it’s not unexpected, Droog’s heart drops, jumps, does just about every action a heart isn’t supposed to do besides stop forever. He doesn’t have any words to reply with. He wishes that he did, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even ask what they think it might be, because he’s absolutely certain he’ll find out soon enough.

So, again, silence reigns. He’s starting to get fairly fucking tired of silence.

But what breaks it next is even more startling than seeing Slick cry. “Will ya stay?” the man asks, inquiry punctuated with a sniffle.

 _Stay?_ Droog reels. _Stay? Slick_ wants _me to stay?_ If it were any other time, he would snort, ask Slick what the hell is wrong with him, call him fucking insane. This is just unnatural. _What is going on!? Christ!_ But, instead of all that, he utters what are, oddly

( _disturbingly_ )

enough the most natural two syllables of his life.

“Of course.”


	7. In Which Droog Stays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And answers the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~WARNING~ if terminal illness is a trigger for you then do not read further

_“Say it ta me.”_

_“I won’t leave, Slick.”_

_And then, in the dark, the tenderest brush over Droog’s mouth. Before he can react, Slick’s walked away._

Waking up is nigh-on strenuous. Even moving slightly produces a pop from his stiff back, and stretching produces a series of crackles that would make the dead plug their ears. _Slick somehow managed to find the world’s shittiest couch. There needs to be a record set._ But after a minute of staring at the ceiling, his mind latches onto that little scene with such sudden fervor that he almost gets whiplash.

Not a dream, but a memory. _He kissed me?_

On one hand, such a display of affection from his leader is unheard of. Not rare, not once in a blue fucking moon, but _never._ It’s not as if kisses between them...well, it’s not as if they’ve never happened, but one that wasn’t paired with desperate clawing, or biting, or profanity? _That’s_ what’s new. The sweetness of the gesture is almost profane in its abnormality. But on the other hand…

 _It’s at least eight. It has to be._ Upon examination of his watch, the time’s revealed to be 9:02. He sighs, sitting up, noting the wrinkles in his clothing. _It was a long day yesterday._ It still lays on him with a heavy residual blanket of weariness, pressing down on his shoulders with unseen force. Anyone looking at him would think that there’s actually something physical and solid on his back with the way that he’s holding himself.

He hates to be a liar, but he’s going to have to go soon. There are no clean clothes for him here, and he _needs_ clean clothes; his appearance is his fortress. No amount of promises to Slick will change that fact. Rising, he brushes himself off as if it’ll have any effect, and then walks with all the quietude of a hunting cat across the floor and over to Slick’s room. Another sigh, a rub of his eyes, and he slowly opens the door.

His leader is still asleep. The hard lines etched into his skin haven’t relaxed, even while unconscious. It seems that his frown lines are deeper than ever. Every once in awhile he gives a twitch, a murmur, a closed-eyed scowl, evidence of some dreamed fray or turmoil. Half of Droog is glad that Slick’s not awake, so he can sneak out without any

( _guilt, so he doesn’t have to admit to dishonesty, discomfort)_

hassle, but part of him wants to stay, as he’d promised. Seeing Slick nestled in blankets, fighting through subconscious anxieties, makes him want to…

_Want to what?_

Ultimately, his want of a refresher is stronger than concern of what Slick will think. He’ll come back right after--hell, maybe Slick won’t even be awake. Just as slowly as before, he backs up and closes the door behind him, before heading to the front. _Just quickly, just a shower and and a change. Then we’ll talk about a game plan._

That’s when the landline rings. And Droog, in all of his dutifulness, picks it up.

“Hello?”

\---

_Terminal._

That’s the only word the Droog gets. The rest is a mix of things that he either doesn’t catch or avoids by sinking deeper into his own inner struggles. _Terminal. Slick’s going to die._

What really gets him is that Slick’s apparently been having symptoms for months, as far as what Droog’s inferred from the doctor. Months. And the son of a bitch hadn’t breathed a fucking word. Occasionally, through the doctor’s lengthy explanation of the exact severity and spread of the cancer, Droog catches a glimpse of the distraught faces of Hearts and Clubs, and Slick’s own expression mirroring the blankness of his own exactly. Clubs starts crying. Hearts tears up. But he and Slick? Perfect pictures of numbness.

For a brief second, Droog debates letting Hearts take over as leader, as the man asks if it’s absolutely impossible to administer treatment. But as the doctor tells them exactly what treatment options would be, what they could do and why they’re unlikely to work, Droog gathers his thoughts. _I have to. I’ll be having to make a lot of decisions in the future,_ he grimly muses. The doctor finishes speaking, and Droog leans forward. “If we aren’t getting treatment for him, what’s next?”

Though blunt, the question gets the job done; the doctor addresses hospital care, hospice care, home care. Slick noticeably grimaces at even the word “care,” which is said about fifty times. _You know what? Maybe if you’d told us a few months sooner, then we wouldn't have to be talking about this._ But Droog listens respectfully, hands folded in his lap, with his serious grey eyes keenly observing everything the doctor does. _This shouldn't be happening. This should not be fucking happening._

When all’s said and done, the Crew communally decides to take a bit to get back to the hideout and go over stratagem. Clubs hasn’t stopped crying. They leave the hospital under a sky that’s just as pallid and grey as yesterday, and Clubs weeps the whole way to their base. Droog thinks he’s supposed to find it heart-wrenching, but he doesn’t feel a thing. Who knew? It just takes your leader dying to attain that perfect level of cold indifference! What a fucking miracle.

The car stops, and they all trudge up the stairs in single file. For once, it’s Droog at the front of the line, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that. They enter, walk like those undead over to the table, sitting without a word. For a minute, the only noise is Clubs’s loud sniffling. Then Hearts goes ahead and asks the question they’re all thinking.

“Why din’t ya tell us?”

All eyes are on Slick now. _No pressure._ He meet their gazes with gritty defiance, a flicker of his old self sparking up inside him. “What good would it’ve done?” he challenges. “What fuckin’ good? You three woulda hauled me to the fuckin’ hospital, interrupted our investigations, and for what? Some headaches? I din’t think it was worth it.” He pauses, snorts. “An’ with what the doc said, about how fast it’s goin’, I doubt it woulda helped anyhow.”

“We could’ve done something,” murmurs Droog, his angry words delivered in a way that sounds more like he’s quietly contemplating life. “Don’t feed us that bullshit, because we all know it was because you’re afraid.”

Slick starts to protest, but stops himself. _That’s right, you bastard. Calling you on your fucking shit._

They don’t start spitting insults, or shouting, or making pointed inquiries, which seems to have been the theme of late. They simply sit back in their chairs, just as zombie-like as before. Stewing in their own horrifying depressed juices. After a time, Slick stands with a barely disguised wobble. “I’m gonna lie down,” he says. Hesitating slightly, he adds, “Stay here,” before going off to their rooms.

They hear the door open and shut. And Droog prepares himself for the barrage of questions.

_This really should not be fucking happening._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SO SO TERRIBLY SORRY IF MY ACCOUNT OF THIS HAS BEEN INACCURATE BECAUSE I AM A DUMB UNEDUCATED NERD =] PLEASE INFORM ME OF MY MANY MISTAKES THANK YOU


	8. Downward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the visit to the doctor's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~WARNING~ some non-con-ish and self-harm-ish elements

But instead of asking questions, Clubs gets up, goes over to the bathroom and closes himself in. A few seconds later Droog hears retching. _For the love of God. This entire Crew is falling apart._

He looks up at Hearts, who’s sitting directly across from him. Hearts looks back with darkness in his expression. Neither of them is in a blaming mood, so they simply gaze at one another, sharing in their misery. “Droog…” Hearts starts off, voice hoarse. “What’re we gonna do?”

Analytical as ever, Droog begins formulating. “First, we need to ask Slick what kind of care he wants.” He pauses. “I suppose that a funeral service will have to be arranged, and we’re still going to have to work around the Canids…” All of this is said with such monotony that someone who didn’t know him would think that he cared for Spades Slick just about as much as a leaf blowing down the sidewalk.

But Hearts knows him. “Fuckin’ _stop,_ ” he says, his voice cracking. “I ain’t playin’ ‘round. Ya _know_ what I meant. _What’re we gonna do?”_

Droog gets up, paces for a second, and grits his teeth before planting his hands on the edge of the table. “I don’t know,” he professes. “We’ll...work through this, no matter what happens.”

“Slick’s _dyin’._ ”

“I know, Hearts. Trust me, I know.”

Hearts speaks again after a few seconds. “You gonna lead?” he asks, tone gruff this time, business-like.

“Of course I am, Hearts.” As if that was even a question.

“I know, I know--” His sentence ends with a huff. “Don’tcha…”

“Don’t I what?”

“Nothin’.” Another period of silence. “So...ya jus’ plan ta get us goin’, gettin’ the Canids?”

“I--yes--I don’t know, alright?” Droog’s exasperation tears through the air like a dagger, and he rips his hat off, throwing it to the side. Then he takes a deep breath. He won’t allow himself another outburst like that. Not in front of Hearts. “Look, we all need a fucking moment. All of us.” The _including me_ is only implied, not said “We’ll let Slick sleep, we’ll talk to him in the morning, and _that’s_ when we’ll make a decision. No matter what his...condition is, he’s still our leader.” Biting his tongue, he stops himself from expressing anything more bitter than he already has.

“Hey.” Hearts rises to join him, standing at his side. “Y’know yer my friend, right?”

Droog says not a word, looking away.

“We known each other fer a long fuckin’ time, Droog. We been through thick an’ thin together. And ya don’t havta hide shit from me.”

 _Oh, but I do._ He shifts, combs through his hair with his fingers. “It’s going to be difficult,” is the only thing he elects to pick out of the rushing torrent of his stream of consciousness.

“It is.”

After a time, Droog feels Hearts’s broad hand on his back, and he unintentionally stiffens, even though the circles it moves in are supposed to be reassuring. The second hand comes in, laying on Droog’s cheek, turning his head to face Hearts. They look at one another for a brief second, a battle between eyes of stormy grey and deep brown.

Then Hearts tips Droog’s chin and pulls him in.

At first, Droog freezes, completely unyielding. Hearts’s mouth on his own is too foreign, too new, and too unthought of. But those lips coax him, persuade him gently into kissing back. It’d be so easy to just lose himself in this as he knows Hearts is trying to do. It’d be so easy to just give himself to the night of physicality that he knows Hearts is willing to provide. For the first time in a long time, if ever, Droog doesn’t want to think, to control--all he wants is to drive the depression from his mind on a wave of sensual feeling, even if it’ll only last one night. Even if it’ll all come crashing back down in the morning.

His own hands move up, securing Hearts’s face to his. The other man is so big, so solid, and for once Droog doesn’t feel his manliness bristling as he’s pressed against the table. Not intimidated by Hearts’s tallness, but relishing in it. Droog nips slightly, and Hearts pants in reply, his ministrations growing in intensity. They press closer, and Droog is definitely pinned now, and even if he wanted to free himself, he--

And then, suddenly, he can’t do it. Revulsion suddenly pounds against his insides, screaming for release. “Get the fuck off of me,” he snarls, reeling away from Hearts’s touch.

“Droog--”

“I said _get off,_ you piece of _shit._ ” Droog pushes the man away, who stumbles back, confused. Breathing heavily, Droog takes one look at his crewmate before heading out the door.

The street is dusky as he gratefully exits into the cool evening air. He has no clue where he’s going. He just gets in his car and drives. The streetlights are just starting to come on, blending into the orange of the sunset. He drives towards the colorful horizon, and that’s his one destination. With fumbling hands, he procures and lights up a cigarette, inhaling smoke as if each puff is his dying breath. Even through all that, he doesn’t notice that he’s shaking.

He drives across and out of the city, out onto the roads beyond. They’re oddly quiet; very few cars have passed him or come up behind him. The sun, having just disappeared, has started to take its bright bands of pink and gold with it, leaving in their stead growing pools of deep blue and purple. _It’s nice,_ he thinks, trying to distract himself; Diamonds Droog rarely ever notices something so trivial as a setting sun. However, when he can’t stop his mind from going at a hundred miles per hour, something to slow it down slightly is much appreciated.

After a time, he slows the car, pulling onto a scenic overhang. One of those cliffs on a turn that has the guardrail to prevent cars from going over. This one’s something special or meaningful, judging by the little green sign with its name a small distance away. Droog doesn’t look at that. He sits in his car with his head resting on the wheel, breath coming in quick gasps even though he’s not moving. Then he turns the car off and slams the door open, climbing out.

It’s starting to get very dim out, with only a small lacing of rosy lavender on the edge of the sky to show that a sun had ever been there. Walking over to the guardrail, he looks over the land, seeing the rolling hills with their spotty forests, which he can just see the splendid autumn garb of. How much it’s changed since they first settled here, he thinks. It’s thin, barely any protection, the way he forces his thoughts to focus on the scenery, like a wall of glass trying to hold back a feral beast. And as he observes the red and the orange and the yellow of the leaves, the dusty brown of the grass, he can feel that beast clawing, snarling, working away at the fragile barrier at was once his best defense. His knuckles whiten as his fingers clench against the metal rail. _For the love of God, hold it back. Look, the geese are flying south. Don’t break. The wind is cold, winter’s coming--for fuck’s sake, you’re stronger than this, you fucking bitch--_

And then comes the moment when the glass shatters.

“ _FUCKKKK!_ ” He kicks hard, his foot thuds against a rock and sends it over the cliff’s edge. “ _FUCK! MOTHERFUCKING_ **_SON OF A WHORE!_ ** _”_ Fists slamming against the barrier, he barely notices as the skin abruptly splits, releasing a sudden welling of crimson. It smears across the cold surface as he punches it again. “ **_GOD DAMN PIECE OF SHIT!!!_ ** _”_ His swears devolve into incoherent screaming into the air, and he continues like this for at least a full minute until he falls to his knees, completely exhausted. Blood runs down from his knuckles, down onto the ground, beading amongst the pebbles. He gives one sob; one without tears, just a hollow heave of his chest. _He’s really going to die. And I know, I fucking_ know _it’s my fault._

It’s completely night by the time he pushes himself to his feet, stumbling slightly from sitting in one position for so long. He hurts: his hand hurts, his foot hurts, his throat hurts and, most of all, something once great and powerful inside him has now shriveled, and it’s in sheer agony. His entire personage radiates his internal strife. Slowly, he walks back to his vehicle, getting in and shutting the door gently behind him. He’d like to sleep for an eternity, but, no matter how confident he is in his ability to fend off some nocturnal intruder, he’s not going to spend that eternity in his car. It’d be cold, uncomfortable and much too far away from his responsibilities; he’s too dependent on being depended on to just drop them, no matter how much they wreak havoc on his mental state.

God damn, he hates feeling. He hates recognizing that he does. It’s so much simpler when he doesn’t have to.

He gifts himself with a cigarette.

The drive back seems to take forever, the road dark and endlessly stretching on beneath his headlights. He hadn’t realized how far he’d gone. _Must’ve been booking it._ The start of the city is a welcome sight, and he finds comfort in the familiarity of the buildings and alleys. Though he’s quietly reluctant, the apartments and warehouses and shoddy stores guide him home, an omnipresent series of wards that push him along, back to his crew. Where he belongs.

He stops in front of the hideout, taking a moment to collect himself and brush the dirt off before getting out and heading in the front door. Inside, the place is practically dead, but he can see that one of the rooms down the hall has a light on. Upon listening, he can hear the low murmur of Hearts and Clubs’s voices. So, they’re accounted for; he’ll just have to check on Slick. Which he does, heading over to press his ear against the door of Slick’s room. Once he catches the sound of light snoring, he’s satisfied, and he shuts himself into his own room in that hallway. He doesn't bother removing his clothing, he just collapses onto the bed, not giving a shit for once about the thin layer of dust on it from disuse.

Within a matter of seconds, the true severity of his weariness hits him and he’s out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> =]]]]]]]]]] i have never been more concerned about inaccuracies in my whole life


	9. The Hunt, Continued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Droog looks for information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~WARNING~ non-con-y elements? threats of genital mutilation, kidnapping, good stuff

“You’ll tell me everything you know, or you  _ will _ pay.”

Her gaze locks with his, her face full of beauty and anger and hatred and passion. All at once she seems like a statue of a war goddess, one that still snarls at the world despite having been vandalised again and again and again. A perpetual state of animosity. He almost respects her, just in that moment, because she’s as bitter as he is. Her own turmoil rivals his own, and he knows that in many aspects overtakes it.

But as soon as her saliva hits his face, that brief connection is severed, torn apart and thrown to the wind. And any hope of her own connection to him is destroyed as he punches her in the face.

The outburst lasts only a second. Droog reverts to calm and collected, pulling himself inside his shell. He pulls out a handkerchief and uses it to wipe the spit from his cheek and the blood from his fist.  _ Those scabs still haven’t quite healed yet, _ he notes as he observes the soiled fabric, streaked over with just a trace of crimson. His own blood. He hadn’t hit nearly hard enough to break skin.

“Whatever you might think of me, I’m not anywhere close to being a snitch,” she hisses as she snaps back to her original position, the tone of her voice bordering on feral.

“Pardon my assumption,” Droog quietly replies. “It might have stemmed from the fact that I hear you’ll swing fairly low with the prices of your services. But that might be a little unfair.” He gives the laziest, most sarcastic shrug of his life.

That hits home. Her eyes flash, deadly jewels set in her golden features. “Lies. The men come to me because the others of my profession know nothing of the trade. My prices are exactly where they should be.” Now her tone grows arrogant, and he watches with disdain as she smiles slightly, mostly to herself, and flips her hair over her shoulder. “The rumors you hear are from the jealous.”

“Honestly, I don’t give a shit, AH,” Droog says, turning away to put a cigarette in his mouth. “All I want,” lighter clicks, deep inhale, “Is the information that I  _ know _ you have. Shall we go over this again?”

“You’re wasting your time.”

For a second, he seriously wonders if he is. He sits in a chair across from her own. They’re in an abandoned apartment that he selected specifically for this purpose. He’d dragged her from her house and tied her up in here. She’s his only lead, and the point at which he thinks about that is the one where he stops wondering. “Look,” he starts, “You obviously know of my conflict with them.” Looking up, he sees her staring stubbornly at him from her seat. “And it’s a fact that, just as everyone in the city does, you know that I am not to be trifled with. I am fairly desperate for this information, Aurea--may I call you that?”

“I don’t care,” she flippantly replies.

“Aurea it is, then. See, Aurea…” He gets up, circles around, puts his hands on her shoulders. One hand still holds the cigarette, and she looks at it with distaste as he flicks some ashes off to the side. “I’m not an idiot. I know that as soon as I get out of here, you’ll tell them I’ve been here--or worse, they’re already out there, waiting for me. So I’ll need to get the most out of my time here.” He leans in close to her ear, watching her shudder. With fear? Revulsion? He’s uncertain, but it’s definitely a desirable effect. “I could kill you. That wouldn’t get me anywhere, though, not right now.” He pauses, as if thinking. “I could scar up that...absolutely adorable face of yours.” Raising his hand, he taps a finger on her cheek. “That might put you out of business for a long, long time, seeing as that’s one of your biggest assets. Then, I guess it’s farther down that’s the end goal for the customers, isn’t it?” He gestures, then leans in so close that his mouth grazes her skin, lowering his voice to a satin murmur. “I could give you a fuck like none of your filthy mongrel customers have ever even  _ tried _ to give you before. With the sharp end of a knife.” Her entire body tenses, and he laughs quietly. “ _ That _ got your attention, didn’t it? I’m sure a street whore wouldn’t even flinch at that. They’re in danger all the time, you know. But you...you’re favored by a gang, not to mention you’re all cozied up safe in your brothel, where your mistress’s guards can keep an eye on you. Not safe from  _ me, _ of course,” he nonchalantly plays with a piece of her hair, “But safe enough.

“Now, not being safe from me means a lot of things. Namely, it means that everyone besides me is less than useless when it comes to kidnapping, and that’s a fact. More importantly to you, it means that you’ve fallen into the hands of someone that’s not only willing to torture a woman, but is willing to put you out of business forever, cripple your ability to ever bear a child  _ and  _ to put you through excruciating agony while doing it. Now, what do you say about telling me where you’ve been brought to see them?”

“You’re a monster,” she snarls, but he can smell her terror. “You have nothing in that heart, if you have one at all. I pity you.”

“Hmm.” Droog backs up, placing his smoke back in his mouth before pulling a card out of his deck. It turns into a combat knife, borrowed from Slick’s collection, with a solid eight inch blade. 

“You do business, you know how impossible it is to try and keep afloat in this hellhole!” Hysteria is starting to come through with her words as he comes around to her front. “You can’t possibly have so little compassion in you--”

“It’s my job to be discompassionate.” He stops in front of her, eyeing his weapon, holding it up to the light of the street streaming in through the dusty window. “And just so you know, I have more in my heart than you could ever imagine.” He looks back at her. “Change your mind yet?”

“Go fuck an animal, Diamonds Droog. You’d be with your ilk then.”

“I’ll take that as a no, then.” He raises the knife.

“ _ Don’t! _ ” she screams.

The knife comes down.

An inhuman noise escapes her, a vocalization of the primal shine he’d seen in her earlier.

The tip of the knife passes cleanly through the space between where her thighs rest, slicing her skirt and embedding in the wood of the chair. “How about now?” he whispers into the silence after.

He can feel heat radiating off her in waves. Violent trembles wrack her body, vibrating the air around her. Even still, she gives him the most spiteful of looks she can muster as he wrenches his knife out. “I pity you,” she says again. He gives her a look. “Wait, wait. I have a deal to propose.”

“I’m listening.”

There’s a brief pause. “If I give you...whatever information I have, you have to promise me protection. You know they’ll want my head for this if they ever find out.”

“Easy enough. I’ll hire someone,” he replies with a dismissive gesture.  _ Whoever I hire can double as a preventive against her telling on me. Two birds, one stone. _

“Good.” She crosses her legs, which from an outside perspective could almost seem casual. Droog knows better. She’s making it harder for a knife to get in. “Being realistic, I don’t know all that much. They have hired me only once recently, maybe a week ago. I was blindfolded for the ride, and come time for me to provide services to them I was in a room with no windows. They’re scared, if that's any consolation.” Quietly, she sighs, looking at her feet. “Now, I may not know what you need, but I do know who does.”

“And whom may that be?”

“My...mistress.” The words sound like they’re dragged unwillingly out of her mouth, each syllable painfully grating and slow. “The Lady Wisteria. She’s the one everyone goes to in order to rent us out. I can tell you where to find her, but she can’t know it was me who told you, or else I’ll lose my job...or worse.” A contemptuous grin. “She might be just as cold as you, Diamonds. You’ll like her for certain.”

“Hmm.” Taking a moment to pace and smoke, he mulls over his plan. All he knows about the mistress is that she’s highly secretive, selective and hard to get on good terms with.  _ More likely than not she won’t be too happy with me barging in there, asking her about her clients and where to find them. I’ll have to have a deal ready. _ “Alright. Give me an address.”

The address, said in a near whisper, is committed to memory as soon as he hears it. It’s in an area consisting majorly of extremely tall buildings--offices and the like--hers lying hidden in the complicated network of towers. Afterwards, he puts out his cigarette on the wall and says, “I’ll send over someone to watch you. Don’t leave your house, they’ll be over soon. If they come back to an empty house then they will report it to me, and you’ll be in a good deal of trouble. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She spits the affirmative out like venom.

“After this whole mess is cleaned up I’ll call them off. Keep in mind: I do know where you live.” Smiling slightly, he begins to untie her. “I thought you weren't anywhere near a snitch.”

“All I really said is where you can find the information. I didn’t give you anything myself.” For a second, she muses, standing and rubbing her newly freed wrists. “...Besides, it’s different in the hands of a psychopath.” 

“Understandable.” His smile widens.

\---

“You’re shitting me.”

Droog clenches his teeth, head leaning against his arm, which is barred against the wall of the payphone booth. One lock of hair falls down from its carefully slicked-back position atop his head; he leans back, brushing it back into place with angrily combing fingers. It’s raining, he left behind his hat in his hurry to get to where he was going, and his umbrella hadn’t made it with him the short distance between the car and the phone. His hair is all fucked up now. “I’m not. She was already there yesterday.”

“Droog. You know I don’t like you, and I’m sure that you aren’t hugely fucking fond of me either.” A restrained growl on the other end of the line. “But a  _ guard job? _ We’re not bouncers, we’re fucking  _ assassins.  _ It’s as if you  _ want _ me to hate you.”

“It’s none of your business  _ what  _ I’m hiring you to do, DM. Your leader accepted the job, I’m paying you very well for it, and that’s where it ends. The only reason why I’m calling you is because LS is already at the job site and she told me to, quote, ‘order Dem and Trench’s sorry asses over here.’”

“Makes me debate mutiny,” DM casually sneers.

“I trust you to get the job done.” He hangs up.

Emerging into the rain, he looks around at the buildings towering above him. It’s the morning after he got the address from AH, and maybe four or five days since he’d seen the Crew at all. He’s losing track. It’s all been one long debacle of hunting frantically for any leads, any loose ends at all, trying to catch the Canids at any turn he possibly can. He prays to God that he’s not wasting his money on AH and that this Wisteria character can give him something more solid. However, AH had warned him of timing before he went--Wisteria is a night cat, and Droog needs to haul ass to speak with her as quickly as he can before she goes to sleep. He’s sure as hell not willing to wait another day. There’s not enough time for that bullshit.

Sighing, he grabs his umbrella out of the car, which is of little to no use now that he’s already fairly saturated. He opens it anyways. No use in trashing his suit any further. He proceeds to lock the car and scrutinize the buildings again. Certain that it’s the glassy one at the end of the street, he starts up the sidewalk, gaze fixed and determined. People pass by him, scurrying their way fearfully this way and that under the ominous row of towering columns, bent heads and hunched shoulders contrasting against his straight stance. They have a right to be afraid. This city is one of the most dangerous ones a person could choose to live in, all because of people like him, and the woman he’s going to visit. The pallor of the day can’t add to their feelings of security.

If it wasn’t for the circumstances, a morning like this would make Droog feel alive, more powerful than ever in his position in a gang.

He reaches the building, checks the number on the wall just to be certain. It’s the right one. Wisteria herself isn’t at the very top floor, but a good section of the floors towards the top are all controlled by her, offices lying below.  _ ‘The guards there are all hers. One of them can tell her you’re looking for her,’  _ AH had said. Sighing, he closes his umbrella and enters. The inside is a fairly typical office lobby, a diminutive woman with a bright smile sitting behind the receptionist’s desk. People in business suits, no doubt men and women who work here, stream in the doors, down the halls, into elevators and through doors to stairs. It’s brightly lit, clean--the only thing odd about it is the ensemble of intimidating looking people positioned at various places in the room. Wisteria’s guards, no doubt.

_ Surely this is overkill, _ he thinks, rapidly counting four of them. He’s not entirely certain which one to approach. One, a man who looks like his nose has been broken at least three times, squints over at him skeptically from the elevator. Standing about probably is making him look extremely suspect, and he wants to be as amiable as possible in this setting. He walks over to the man, nods respectfully, then says in a lowered voice, “I have some business with the Lady Wisteria.”

“Tough luck, beanpole, she ain’t takin’ no one right now,” the man responds, in an entirely not lowered voice. Droog looks back over his shoulder. The receptionist is examining her nails, smile dropped now that she’s not the focus of attention and looking extraordinarily bored.  _ I suppose they'd all have to be okay with this. _

“Look, it’s...fairly dire.” Droog turns back. The guard is glaring at him, eyes narrowed.  _ Stay amiable.  _ “I don’t know if an...exception could be made, at all?”

“I said forget it. You johns all say it’s dire.”

“I’m not here about any prostitutes. This is different.” Droog almost wants to growl in anger. The assumption is only natural, but how disrespectful to assume!  _ Don’t play games with me. This beanpole’s got a fucking mission and could beat your ass six ways to Sunday. _

“Scram! It don’t make a shit’s worth a’ difference whether you’s got a death sentence on your head or just wanna have a fuckin’ tea party. She ain’t seein’ you, and that’s that.”

Taking a deep breath, Droog steps back, leaning slightly on his umbrella. He can see the other guards are watching him with distaste. “Alright. Fine,” he says. “I’ll wait until she is available.” The guard nods curtly. “And when she is available...tell her Diamonds Droog came to see her. That’s all.”

He goes to claim one of the seats against the wall, but not before he sees the shock and disbelief pass over the guard’s face. The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement, an amusement that only grows as he sees the guard talking to another one when he sits. He picks up a magazine from the end table and examines it with feigned interest. In reality, he’s watching the two out of his peripheral vision. Waiting for the results. One of them goes into the elevator, and a few minutes later the second guard comes over to him. “The Lady Wisteria will see you,” she says, words gruff and slightly marred as they escape heavily scarred lips. “I’ll bring ya up to her floor.”

Standing, Droog nods, inwardly smug at his triumph. “Thank you.”


	10. Wisteria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Droog attends to an important meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~WARNING~ underage-ish? more seizuring

The elevator stops at floor 16, the last floor to have a button that’s not labelled “out of service.” Droog is almost entirely certain that those buttons were put out of service on purpose. His escort leads him out into the darkened hall and proceeds to pat him down. Knowing the precarious nature of the situation that he was going into, Droog came unarmed, and the guard comes up looking pleased. “This way,” she grunts, gesturing for Droog to go ahead of her.

After a little while, they round the corner and make it to a heavily remodeled archway. Just through it Droog can see what can only be described as a mixture between a lounge and a throne room. The section in the middle of the floor which would be devoted to office cubicles has been opened up into a vast and lavish space, filled with cushions, couches, ornate coffee tables, statues and even what looks like a hot tub. It’s all lit by strings of lights threaded along the walls and over strategically placed poles throughout the area. A few women lie about here and there in sleeping garments, ages ranging wildly from teenagers to middle-aged, all of them exquisitely gorgeous. Droog averts his eyes from them as he’s led towards the end of the room, not only out of respect for the women but for not provoking the multitude of guards, male and female, that sit with them. Their eyes follow him, feral cats in the velvet landscape, on his way to his final goal.

Ahead of him, several feet away from the back wall, is who he can only guess is Wisteria. Her seat is the most ostentatious of all: a plush loveseat, threaded with gold along the seams and surrounded with pillows. Her person is less decorated, but he assumes that at her usual hours she must be a lot more dressy. She’s dressed in a bathrobe, thin and greying, but with a cool smile playing on her lips that would make anyone think she was born ready to receive all guests the world could throw at her. “Diamonds Droog,” she says as he comes near, her voice slightly reedy yet carrying an air of command. “What a great pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, Lady Wisteria,” he replies, kissing the hand she offers. Her skin exudes the smell of honey and powder foundation.

“As you can see, you’ve caught me at a bad time.” Shifting in her seat, she stretches her legs out. A girl that can’t be older than sixteen sleeps by one of the legs of the loveseat, brown curls lying strewn over her face. Wisteria reaches down to play with a strand. “But as soon as I heard one of the most important men in the city wanted to see _me,_ well, I figured rest could wait until later. Would you like a drink?”

“Just water, if it wouldn’t be an inconvenience.” In reality he doesn’t want anything. He just doesn’t wish to seem too straight-forward, for once--one wrong move here could mean a loss of the only information he knows he can get.

She tuts at him. “Of course it wouldn’t be an inconvenience, darling.” Carefully, so as to not disturb the reclining youth on the floor, she swings her feet down and lightly brings herself up. “Normally I’d have one of my pets bring you something, but as you can see…” A gesture indicates the women, who all have their eyes closed, as far as Droog observes. “Sit, sit. I’ll return shortly.”

Unsure of where to settle himself, he sits on one of the many cushions, crossing his legs. _I must look like a child,_ he thinks with distaste, but there are little other options. Coming back after a minute, Wisteria laughs upon seeing him. “Oh, Diamonds, you can sit up here with me,” she protests, handing him a glass of water before reclaiming her spot, the young girl beside her feet. Twice, gently, Wisteria pats the space beside her.

Droog rises, almost affronted by the vague condescension, and seats himself where indicated. He fakes a sip of the water, which is thoughtfully topped with ice, not wanting to offend but wary. He doesn’t know her, and doesn’t know what kind of bullshit she might try and pull on him. It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to drug him, or poison him. She hums lightly, and he looks over to see her smiling at him again. “What is it?”

“You just look like you’ve seen enough of water for the day,” she comments mildly.

His suit is still a bit damp. “Ah, I didn’t realize--your seat--” He starts to stand.

“No, no, no, it’s quite alright! Sit back down, please.”

He stops, settles again. “The rain did catch me on my way here. I was...admittedly, in a hurry.”

“Mm. Yes. About that. I’m guessing you didn’t visit me to make small talk.” She sips her own drink--gin, judging from the smell.

“No. I didn’t.” Several courses of dialogue pop into his head and he mulls over each, deciding which is the best route. “I’m here on account of a few of your clients.”

“Oh?” Guarded interest.

“A...group of individuals, known as the Canids. I heard that they make use of your services. Rather, the services of your workers.” He looks back at her. Her eyes have frozen solid, glittering icy jewels that remain unreadable. “I hear that they’re ones to take them off-site.”

“Oh?” Geniality, masking a dangerous note.

“Yes. I have business with them, and they know it.” He can hear the hunger in his own voice, and takes a deep breath, burying it back beneath calculated words. “The trouble is...I can’t seem to--”

“Droog! _Droog!_ ”

All of a sudden, his walkie crackles to life. He jumps, then curses himself for doing so. _Of all the inopportune moments…_ A sigh escapes him. “I’m sorry, I need a moment,” he apologizes, excusing himself over to the side of the hot tub. Once there, he turns down the volume, then hisses into the transceiver. “What is it?”

“Droog, it’s Slick, he--” Clubs sounds panicked, talking quickly and stumbling over his words. “We g-got--he was--we woke up, and he was--we didn’t--he didn’t know w-what was _happening,_ oh God--”

 _Slick? Oh, son of a bitch._ “Slow down, slow down,” Droog growls quietly. Clubs stammers something else, but Droog cuts him off. “Clubs, slow _down,_ take a breath--what happened?”

“I--he--Droog, he--there’s--”

“ _TELL HIM TO GET HIS ASS BACK HERE!_ ” Hearts roars from the background.

“Hearts says--”

“I heard him, I heard him. Give the walkie to him.”

“But--”

“ _Give the walkie to him, Clubs._ ”

There’s a shuffle, a brief second of white noise, then Hearts comes on. “He’s havin’ a fit,” he says, sounding extremely tired. “Seizure. It’s real bad--ya need ta get over here ASA-fuckin’-P, or I’m gonna find ya and drag ya here myself.”

The receiver clicks into silence as Hearts waits for a response. Sighing deeply, Droog massages his temple. As much as he wants to book it to the hideout as fast as he possibly can, he can’t. Not when he’s this close. Not with a situation as fragile as this. “I can’t,” he murmurs, then realizes he isn’t pressing the button. He holds it down, and speaks clearly into the walkie. “Hearts, I can’t.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Look, I’m _this fucking close_ to finding where the Canids are holed up. I can’t afford to lose this.”

“You’re fuckin’ _jokin’ me!_ Slick’s _dyin’, and YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO COME BACK FOR EVEN--”_

“Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself,” Droog interrupts. Then he shuts the power off. For a moment, he debates it again, telling Wisteria to screw herself and going back to help his crewmates, to be at his leader’s side, to figure out this massive pile of bullshit so no one else has to. But can’t they see how important the work he’s doing is? Can’t they see that this split, while regrettable, is completely necessary? He soberly makes his way back to Wisteria, who’s evaluating him with an apathetic eye. “I apologize again. Where were we?”

“You want me to tell you the location of a valued group of clients, I believe, for some ulterior motive you have not expressed yet.” She takes another drink of gin, then meets his look directly. “Is that right?”

Droog sighs again, taking a seat beside her--again. “Look,” he starts. “I understand that this could require...some considerable compensation on your part. I am willing to provide any--”

“Considerable compensation is putting it lightly, Diamonds.” You could facet stones with the sharpness in her voice. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but it takes a _lot_ for me to trust anyone taking my girls out. I don’t give that privilege to just any person who strides through the doors of my establishment.” Now it softens, almost weary. “Those boys are frequent customers, and not only do they give me a considerable amount of money, they’re also well acquainted with me. And I knew, I just _knew_ that the last time their leader came--one of them, at least--it was most likely the last time I would see him alive.” She leans towards him. “If they disappeared...for some reason or another...after I gave you this information, I would be sorely disappointed.”

“And they would.” Droog looks at his hands. He hates himself for what he’s about to do, but he sees no other choice. “They would disappear. I would kill them, and you would never see them again. A hole would be left in your income which I doubt I could fill. But…” He clenches his teeth. “You’re my last, my _only_ , lead, Lady Wisteria. I can’t walk out of here without knowing where they are.” _I’ll be a failure._ “I will do anything to know where they are. I will repair any repercussions in any way you deem fit. I have...I have people that need me to do this. They’re...they’re relying on me.” _I can’t let them down._

He can feel her shrewd gaze scanning his face. “I have people relying on me too,” she replies. “You see all these women around you. You know of the ones that are out working. Supporting them does not come easily.” She pauses. “You said anything.”

“Anything,” Droog reiterates.

There’s a period of silence in which she mulls over whatever deal she’s thinking of. It seems to stretch on for hours, months; he can do nothing but watch her face for any sign of an answer. “I have a number of conditions,” she slowly starts. “One. You pay me what they would be paying me for several months, maybe the next four or five. Pay it however you like, so long as it’s done within the timespan.”

“Done.” _We’ll have to pull another heist soon, regardless of the Slick situation._

“Two. You don’t ask me for anything again. You don’t come around my girls, my establishment, and if we ever do meet it will be through happy coincidence, or it’s because _I’m_ meeting with _you._ ”

“Done.”

“Three. You--and your cohorts--owe me a favor. I hire you, ask you to do something. Just once, but with no fee.”

Reluctant to involve the rest of the Crew, Droog instantly takes on an air of uncertainty. “This is a lot to ask.”

“And you’re asking a lot of me.”

 _I’m not, actually. It’s one gang, already mostly dead--you can’t_ possibly _be so fucking fond of them, they can’t_ possibly _create enough income, that this would be warranted._ “Fine,” he angrily spits. “Is that it?”

“If you give me that attitude, then no.” He’s silent, simmering in his fury. “Good. Let me write down the address I know they were last at.”

 

\---

 

“Finally,” Hearts snarls as Droog steps into the hideout. He sits at the table with Clubs, arms crossed over his chest, looking absolutely livid--as well as tearful and red-eyed. It makes the glare a lot less intimidating. “Glad ya decided ta show up.”

“Where is he?” Droog inquires, drained despite it being barely into the afternoon. He may have gotten the damned location, but he may have gotten himself _and_ his Crew into an entire world of complications that weren’t entirely necessary. Success doesn’t taste very sweet at the moment.

Jerking his head in the general direction of Slick’s room, Hearts doesn’t say another word. In fact, he pointedly looks away from Droog, as if pretending he doesn’t exist.

“Is he okay?”

Clubs’s gaze flickers over to Hearts for a second. Hearts remains silent. “H-he, um…” In comparison to Hearts’s mere tearfulness, Clubs looks on the verge of bawling. A couple of drops gather on his eyelids, are banished by a futile swipe of his sleeve, and are replaced. “He, um…he bit his tongue pretty badly. I-it...Hearts said it’d...that i-it’s be okay, a-and...that, uh...it looked worse. Than it actually was.”

They dwell in tense reticence for a long moment. Last time Droog saw them, it was the day they’d found out the news; he’s gotten to work the following morning without meeting with any of them. It’s obvious the last few days have not been treating them well. Neither of them look as if they’ve been sleeping much. Haggard, with dark circles gracing the bottoms of their blood-shot stares and stubble evolving into scraggly beards, they’re the epitome of “not-so-good”. Droog pushes away the guilt creeping up on him and walks away, down the hall. Certainly he doesn’t feel any accusatory eyes following him as he goes. _I was doing the right thing. I’m certain of it._

The door to Slick’s room creaks open all too loudly. Droog curses under his breath, tiptoeing in. It’s dim, the lamp in the room definitely in dire need of a new and not dusty bulb, but he can see Slick lying with his eyes closed on the bed. He steps closer, giving his leader a quick once over to make sure he’s still breathing. And he is--and sleeping far more peacefully than the last time Droog had checked on him, on that day that seems so distant now. Relieved, he turns to go back out.

“Droog.”

Droog looks back to see Slick lying with his eyes very not-closed. A small grin creeps lopsidedly over his face, revealing a couple of dully glistening points that tug at his lip. _He hadn’t been sleeping after all, then._ In Droog’s rush to leave he hadn’t been as acute as he usually is.

“C’mere,” Slick says, slurring slightly.

Droog obliges, walking over to the edge of the bed.

“Nn, c’m _ere_.” The words are half mumbled, tripping over the swelling of his tongue. He gestures to the empty side of the mattress.

Now Droog’s movements are stiff, mechanical as he makes his way around. Sitting gingerly on the covers, he doesn’t look at Slick, instead looking at his feet. He can hear the other man turning over, pushing the blankets down. A cringe is suppressed as Slick pulls him by his sleeve, but he doesn’t resist. It’s not unexpected, in the least expected of ways. _He won’t be around soon enough, it’s the least I can do._ He lies down, letting Slick press his hands against his back and his head into his chest. It’s odd, having his leader hold him so tenderly, and he’s unsure how to feel about it. He tells himself he doesn’t like it. That he absolutely hates the way Slick’s breath caresses his skin through the front of his shirt, how he can see the pulse in Slick’s neck thrumming away. All the reminders that Slick is indeed still alive. Droog hates the way he wraps his own arms around Slick’s bony frame, definitely not fading from awkward to a strange gratefulness that he never thought he’d feel.

It takes him a second to realize that Slick’s saying something, garbled words muffled even further by Droog’s clothes. As gently as he can he can, he shifts away so as to better hear the other man, but Slick has finished whatever train of thought he’d been expressing. But before long, just as Droog thinks he could return to his original position, Slick says something else. “I w’nna...I wan’ us t’ g’hhmm.”

“What?”

“ _Hhmm_. Go hhmm.”

_Home?_

Before he can ask, Slick has fallen fast asleep, leaving Droog to wonder what ‘home’ could mean by himself. _I suppose I’ll have plenty of time to think on it,_ he thinks, sighing as he listens to his leader start to snore lightly. He won’t be getting out of here any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON'T loOK AT ME OHm y god  
> i don't know if you can tell but i think the quality of my writing has quite deteriorated recently  
> so just  
> take it and go
> 
> also i need to do some planning for where this fic is going next so the next update may be a little while, but don't worry! i'm not dropping it, there will be more chapters


	11. In Which There Is Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Droog finds a lead and makes a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~WARNING~ killing/violence/bloodshed ahead

The leaves rustle in the piercing wind, smooth surfaces shining orange under the streetlights. It’s later that day, after the arrival of night, and Droog finds himself standing in an alley across from a weathered house. Old enough to be partially constructed of handmade bricks. It’s been here since the city’s start, he’s willing to bet. Trees grow up all around it, ivy covers its front--he’d barely found it after scouring the area for over an hour. It was only after he grew incautious that he spotted the reddish walls in between the trunks, and seen the vague marker of an address on the telephone pole in front.

He scrutinizes the area, exhaling a long thread of smoke as he flicks the ash off of his cigarette. There’s no way that he could tell if there’s someone hidden in the darkness, on top of neighboring houses, in other alleys, within the house itself. Just because he’s been scouting doesn’t mean the area is free from danger. But damn, he has been stealthy, taking every single proper precaution up until this point. If there’s anything that he skipped, anything that would put him in the way of obvious danger, then God can strike him down. He comes out of the alley, into the deserted street, and stops. Nothing. Nothing but the cold buffets that threaten to remove his hat from his head.

Safe? Maybe. Is he going for it regardless? Yes.

He takes out his gun.

His long stride quiet and almost predatory in nature, he makes his way from the street to the front door. Surprisingly solid, made out of worn wood that has stood unwaveringly through the years. The door handle is of old-fashioned design, a handle and a place to press the thumb wrought out of blackened metal. It takes a solid wrench to open the thing, and it digs into the ground as he does so; upon examination, he can see relatively fresh scrapes on the ground from where someone did the same thing. But from his long minutes of observation from the alley, he’s determined it to be without life enough to approach. Now that he is within the threshold of the place, it seems to be even more confirmed. The air is musty and ripe, wetly dim corners seeming to stare at him from blank, stark blackness. A crumbling stairway lies before him, and large rooms to either side of him. He renews his grip on the handle of his weapon, eyes adjusting to the atmosphere that lies lightless aside from the gentle glow playing about his feet. It is silent. The calm in-and-out of his breath, the whoosh of his lungs as they are filled, the steady throb of his heart--these quiet noises are the only things he can hear, and they come from within him. The inside of this house seems to swallow all other noises, stagnant and quite nearly foreboding. Definitely no visible, or audible, sign of human life.

It only takes him a couple of minutes to scour the first floor. The house is not of impressive size, and lies mostly empty, aside from a rotting dining room table, dusty cabinets and an old desk with a hutch. He carefully goes through each, the tactical light equipped to this particular handgun of his providing enough light for his investigation. When he finds nothing but cobwebs and rat shit, he climbs the stairs, flecks of brick falling away beneath his feet, to the upstairs which as he finds consists of one singular room with a single door set into the wall. A closet. He crosses to it, feeling the floor’s instability underneath his feet and moving gingerly. When he looks in it, he find a moldering photo on the floor of a man with a hardened and tired face, a disposition entirely typical of those present for the molding of this city. When he flips it, faded handwriting written with a precise hand reads, “To my love”. Someone who once lived in this house, perhaps, or to someone who once lived here, he doesn’t know. There’s no way to tell at this point.

Out of some sort of strange sentimentality he slips the photo into his jacket pocket, absently wiping his hand on his pants after.

Back down the stairs, with vigilance. The crunch of detritus beneath his feet, while muffled by the oppressive dampness, seems to shout out his presence louder than he ever could muster with his own voice. There’s one place left, it seems: there’s a basement. He saw the door to it earlier, and left it for later examination. He’s going to go out on a limb and guess that that would be the windowless room AH described. That door is rotting from the hinges, he sees, and it leaves him wondering how the front door managed to remain so intact. _This damn place is like a crypt. It’s dead in here,_ he thinks, managing to get the hunk of wood scooted enough for there to be a sizable gap between it and the frame, which he slips through. These stairs are even more dangerous, not only falling apart into dust, but slick with dampness. He braces himself against the wall, grimacing as disintegrating concrete rolls off the stones and onto his suit. It’s better than slipping and breaking his neck, he supposes. There’s another door at the bottom, and he notes that’s it’s strangely out of place; a different wood than the others, newer, modern doorknob. Creeping down, he steels himself. If there is anyone in this house, they’re here, and he’s certain at this point that they would’ve heard him.

A deep breath. His hand rests on the knob. The metal is cold.

He busts in, ready to fire.

There’s no one down here as far as he can see, but what he does see causes a flood of triumph to run through him. _God praise Lady motherfucking Wisteria._ There’s a table, a couple of chairs, a mattress...and most importantly, a desk. If there’s anything of importance, it’s in there.

Here is not dead. It’s far drier, the walls partially insulated, and instinct tells him that people have been here, and recently.

On a hunch, he flicks the light switch on the wall and finds that the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling functions. He turns off his tactical light. He rushes over to the desk, riffling through the drawers, pawing with trembling hands through weapons, cigarette butts, pills, a string of condoms--until he reaches for the middle drawer. In such a hurry, it startles him when it doesn’t respond to his attempt to pull it open. Locked. Thankfully, he has his lockpicking set, which he draws the card for, almost fumbling and dropping it. And even then, it takes him several attempts to work the unnecessarily large padlock that is hanging from haphazardly screwed-on bases.

He finally gets it open. And when he does, his heart stops. _It couldn’t be._ It’s empty. Not a shred of paper, of detritus--nothing. _Of course it is. How could it not be?_ His entire hunt, reduced to empty promises. Every lead, chased, every potential informant, questioned. Nowhere to go. He grips the edge of the desk, gritting his teeth. _What am I to do now?_ Back to Wisteria, maybe? Find another fifty, another one hundred snitches who can’t tell him jack shit? And why was he so excited anyways? Any homeless person could be living down here. Just because there are signs of inhabitation here doesn’t automatically mean that his enemies have made a hideout here. _How could I have been so stupid?_ His thoughts dart with whiplash-inducing speed from the potential that Wisteria had lied to him, to his own blind fervor concerning finding these bastards, to Slick, to Hearts and Clubs, to how he ditched them for a dead end. Filled with fury, he slams his fists down before turning away, scowling, to light a new cigarette.

But just when he’s about to leave, he stops. Thinks a moment. With the state of every single other compartment in that desk...that one seems far, far too clean to him. _And why the hell would it be locked if there wasn’t something in it? Maybe they took the “something,” but maybe..._ He turns back to the open drawer, feeling around underneath. When that gets him nothing, he prods around in the bottom, gently pressing and feeling the material. Sensing it flex under the pressure of his fingers, touch another surface. Instantly, he’s scrambling to pry up the thin wooden panel.

A thin notebook, cover marked with fingerprints, lies alone, revealed from its hiding spot. Snatching it up, he opens it to the first page. The entire page is filled with lines of writing, entries put down by multiple hands. So is the next page, and the next, and the next. Dates and times. Meeting places. _Locations,_ actual, real life _locations._ From what he can infer upon skimming it, the remaining Canids have mostly been separate from one another, meeting and moving strategically, communicating primarily through this notebook and probably others like it. The relief of discovery comes in such a startling wave that’s he’s left leaning once more against the desk, now with the smallest of smiles gracing his face.

Until he hears footsteps on the floor above him.

At first, he freezes, then he moves into quick action. The light switch is turned off, and he crams himself into the space below the stairs. The notebook is slipped inside his coat and he takes the safety off his weapon. The steps are quick, purposeful. His eyes narrow, his body tensed, ready to strike as he hears the basement door being pushed. Whoever it is, they’re certainly in a hurry. They won’t be prepared for him. Dirt falls from the underneath of the stairs as the person hurries down them, coating Droog’s already filthy suit.

Then the basement is, once more, illuminated. He sees the person. One of the last Canids. He knows them from when they were backing down the stairs at their initial encounter, shooting back at him from their leader’s side. They race over to the still open desk. Curse. Their head whips back and forth as they scan the room. When they turn towards him their eyes are already flashing with fear, but the look expands into depthless horror as they see the gun pointed at their face.

Droog fires. The Canid crumples to the ground, bullet between their eyes.

The ringing aftershock of the shot clouds his hearing. He doesn’t hear the second pair of footsteps, running out of the house.

 

\---

 

He barely remembers getting home. It was all a blur of the nearly dizzying exhilaration of his victory and heady waves of weariness. He must have set aside his clothing for dry-cleaning at some point, because he’s in nightclothes when he awakens, but he’s uncertain. It’s seven, the time his internal clock has set for his awakening; he feels rested, so it couldn’t have been too late by the time he’d gotten home. He rises to go fix himself a coffee, somewhat disoriented, but remembering the lead he found and smiling as he lights a cigarette.

The day is bright, cloudless for once. His kitchen is filled with austere sun, crisp-edged and clean as it paints surfaces and defines the edges of shadows. As he sets up his french press and begins boiling water, the bright red of the few leaves of maple tree outside his window catches his attention. The light shines through them, dappling his sink with spots of wavering, bloody light. It’s a beautiful morning, and the sharpness of it all washes the fog from his brain. Strength floods his body. This day is important. It’s the day that he’ll track down and kill those motherless sons of bitches.

_I can afford to tell the Crew later,_ is one of the first things he thinks at his dining table, letting the bitter taste of a strong, dark roast seep into his taste buds. _After I look through the notebook more thoroughly._ He justifies this with _I can figure this out by myself,_ but isn’t entirely sure if that’s the reason. He doesn’t think on it any further. The next point that comes to mind, one far less troubling, is _There’s no way they can escape now._ Only two left, and an entire ledger of where they’ve been for the last couple of weeks. All he has to do is ask around, snoop some more, make a plan. They’ll fall right into whatever web he spins. _Soon I can call off the guards from AH, and it’ll go back to business as usual._ The notion is a pleasant one. It makes his kitchen seem a lot comfier, his nostalgic return to the seemingly distant past; old routines and immoral doings that have been unattainable and put far out of mind these last couple of weeks. Heists, robberies, affairs, engagements of all sorts with rival factions…

_Then, of course, there’s the matter of Slick._

As if on queue, a loud crashing noise over his head punctuates the grim thought. Droog jerks, clutching the handle of his mug tightly. Silence, thick and unbroken, follows. After a half second of alert vigilance, he stands, leaving the coffee on the table. It's regrettable that he has to abandon it so soon. He grabs the chair that he had been sitting in. With his cards in his room on the second floor, not far from the noise, his seat is the closest and likely the best weapon. Teeth clenched and expression of stone, he creeps upstairs.

His bedroom door lies open, a gaping mouth leading to a hollow tension that he would rather not enter. It reminds him of the door to the house of last night, dangerous, an unknown lying beyond--but his room is _alive,_ even more so than that basement, so vigorously and violently alive with the potential of what lies within that the feeling crackles like lightning through Droog’s flesh. He can see from his position that his window has been shattered, glass strewn in glittering fragments across his carpet. _I need my deck,_ he thinks, berating himself for not bringing it down with him. He knows better, he _should’ve known better._ And there it is, taunting him from his bedside table, the place he always puts it before sleeping. _In and out. I need that more than anything else right now. There is someone in my house,_ goddamn it, _and I will_ die _before they get away with it._

He steps up further. All the other doors around him are closed. It all smells like a trap. He reaches the doorframe. A moment's thought, then he flings his chair around the edge of the opening, to see if anyone lies in hiding just out of sight. But there are no shrieks of pain, no retaliatory strikes of weapons. His cards are so incredibly close. Now over the sill, he stretches his arm out--

“Not so fast.” Something hard and cold presses against the back of his head. That distinctive click. He knows what that means. He’s done this to others, many times before. That click means that he’s a dead man.

Adrenaline rushes through his body and, in a quickly calculated movement, he twists, kicking out while grabbing for what he knows to be a gun. His foot hits something (a leg, granted the accuracy of his frantic analysis) that vaults backwards against the impact. One of his hands grasps onto flesh (a wrist), and he pulls down. There’s roar near his ear. Suddenly, it feels as if a something monumental has plowed into his right shoulder, throwing him back and bringing the weight of the person belonging to the wrist on top of him. His grip is lost--in fact, he doesn’t think he’s physically capable of gripping anything. A spreading numbness radiates out from where he was hit, pulsing down his arm, across his chest; for a second he can’t breathe, flailing, partially deafened by the bang with a struggling body above him. _I’ve been shot,_ his mind says with a dazzling display of nonchalance. _I’ve been shot, and I’m going to bleed out of I don’t do something soon._ He finds himself looking into a pair of glaring golden eyes, a snarling face. _And I’m going to get shot again._

With all the willpower in his body, he swings his other arm over, punching that scowl away from him. His attacker falls back against the wall, slamming into one of the closed doors. Droog can now see that the door across from him is ajar, and for the first time he curses himself for keeping the hinges so well-oiled. Grabbing at the air, he sees that the gun is pointing at him once again, and he lunges, batting it to the side just as it fires again. This time, searing agony streaks across his jawbone. His face is numb now, too. He can’t feel his tongue. “ _FUCK YOU!_ ” the assailant screams, kicking at Droog’s kneecaps. There’s a series of clatters as the gun makes the journey down the stairs. “ _Why won’t you just fucking_ **_DIE?!_** ” Droog responds with another punch. He sees now who’s trying to kill him, if through pain-blurred eyes. A young man, that startling gaze burning with an indescribably vicious fire, spiky orange hair seeming to exemplify this scorching hatred. It feels like Droog knows him from some long-forgotten dream, but he knows exactly who this is, and he’s not from a dream. One of the final two. _Sent to kill me,_ his mind pipes up again, still frigidly casual as he stands and sends his foot crashing into the other man’s sternum. The Canid curls in on himself, coughing, and Droog goes for his deck of cards. But he stumbles, fingers grabbing onto his ankle, and his body his propelled forwards, head whacking down hard onto the corner of the nightstand.

How ironic. The very thing that was his goal is now aiding in his murder.

The world grows dim around him, throbbing in and out in reddish waves. He feels the intruder climbing atop him once more, flipping him onto his back, and a fist is sent into the wound on his face left by the bullet. “Here is where I choke the life out of your miserable body, _Diamonds Droog,_ ” the Canid snarls, digging nails into Droog’s injured shoulder. He lets out a grating noise, back arching off the floor. There’s a pressure on his throat, and his eyes close. “I’m sure that you’re regretting letting me get away last night, huh? Or maybe you were just too _stupid, too fucking idiotic_ to even know I was there.” There are stars swimming across his vision. The wanton tearing of his assailant into his injury is causing a break-through sort of pain, dulled around the edges by the persistent lack of feeling, but deeply agonizing in a way that he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before. “I watched you kill Cuon, you _piece of shit!_ I watched him die right in front of my eyes, and you _walked away as if it never happened! ALL OF US ARE DEAD, AND IT’S_ **_YOUR FUCKING FAULT!_ ** ” _Stop talking and let me die,_ Droog thinks. _Let me die. I’ll just fail them all. It’s fine._ “And when _you’re_ dead, Diamonds...when you’re dead, Lycaon and I are going to kill each of your shitty friends, _one by one._ We’ll leave your leader for last, so he can watch his _pitiful world fall down around him._ ” _I might as well. I can be the ultimate disappointment this way. I’ll die, and I’ll let them all die._ “Hey, look at me! _Look at me! I WANT TO SEE YOU DIE!_ ” It’s at that moment, when the Canid ceases clawing at his wound and grips onto Droog’s face instead, that he feels the edge of a small box against his fingertips. _It must’ve fallen when I hit my head._ As nimbly as he can manage, he pulls a card out. “ ** _LOOK AT ME!!_** ” He opens his eyes obligingly, the searing amber ones only a couple of inches away from his own. The hand on his throat tightens, beginning to cut off air. “ _Good._ ”

With a flick of Droog’s wrist, the familiar wood of his cue stick lies in his palm. He strikes with the thick end. It’s him who gets the pleasure of seeing his enemy’s eyes roll back into his head.

After getting the Canid off of him and properly bludgeoning him to death, he drops the cue stick and grabs onto his shoulder. There’s a bullet in there somewhere, and warm sanguinity is dripping onto the floor beneath him. He’s very light-headed, but he manages to get back over to the end table where his walkie is, fumbling to turn it on. “Hearts, Clubs, someone,” he rasps. “I pray that one of you is awake, because I’m losing a lot of blood.”

A response crackles out from the device, but he doesn’t hear it. He promptly passes out on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to this fic! The document for it was created on June 21st 2015 ;u;  
> THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR CONTINUING TO READ! I predict the end coming in 4 more chapters from now, but who knows. In any case, we're about 3/4 the way done! I'm glad that you all have enjoyed, and stick around for more!


	12. When The Sun Rises Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the stay in the hospital turns out to be a bit of emotional turmoil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~WARNING~ horribly innacurate hospital scenes ahead, read at your own risk

It was brutal. There was blood everywhere, and for all their vast experience in gunshot wounds, they had no clue what to do.

Or at least so they tell him over juice and instant potatoes. Having been unconscious for the majority of the time, Droog is letting Club’s and Heart’s catch him up on the details while he eats his pitiful excuse for lunch. The action, if you will, is something the two are all too eager to recant, and Droog listens quietly. He’s grateful to see them, even if he doesn’t like the fact that they’re witnessing him so feeble. Then, they’ve cared for him in similar situations many times before. That’s the great thing about the Crew, he thinks, how they’re always there for him no matter what sort of shit pile he’s busy digging himself into.

_ Something I chose to not reciprocate. _

What uncharacteristic sentimentality.

Hearts artfully describes the state of the delightful young man’s head as a pumpkin that had been jumped on. “Except more spattered,” he adds on afterthought. “Ya really did a fuckin’ number on him, Droog.” Clubs concurs, saying that it was hard to tell whose blood was whose, his tone one of barely disguised anxiety, and even horror. All Droog can think about is, amidst a mass of disfigured features and shattered bone, a single amber eye still staring, fury gone and replaced with a glazed nothingness as it sits in the red and pulpy amalgam. As they go on to tell him the process of getting to the hospital, which involved a lot of speeding and potentially some cutting through backyards, the image remains in his head. It absolutely could’ve been him in the exact same situation, but instead he’s here, lying in this hospital bed with his cohorts keeping him company. He made it out by the skin of his damned teeth, he muses. It makes you think what would have happened had the tables been turned. But he gets to come home alive, and the last Canid gets to wait, never knowing exactly what happened to his gang-mate.

The doctors have been feeding him a steady stream of what he considers to be fair nonsense. Apparently, he needs to stay in this garbage room for a little while, eating this garbage food, because they need to make sure his internal organs are stable. Lucky to have escaped with all his fingers and toes, they tell him, what with the blood loss and signs of the potential of gangrene having been barely thwarted. They tell him that he has some nerve damage in his shoulder, maybe permanent, and the wound created by the second bullet needed several stitches, but that’s it. A miracle, especially at his age. Not only that, but they’re surprised his kidneys didn’t explode and his intestines didn’t fall out through his ass, it seems to him. Calmly as ever, he explained to them that he’s been through worse and lived, but that didn’t seem to reassure them, and it certainly didn’t convince them to let him have a cigarette instead of this goddamn patch on his arm. And it’s true. Last gunshot wound he got Hearts performed impromptu surgery on him--and they were still being shot at. He’s still alive. But no, this time he has to lie with a needle in his hand, his arm in a sling, and nothing to do but wait.

At some point, Hearts leaves at Droog’s request, going to retrieve books and whatnot from his home so he can be distracted from restlessness when he, no doubt, ends up alone at some point. But as Clubs explains in hushed tones after, he and Hearts likely won’t be leaving the hospital, not to go rest or anything of the sort. The worrywarts that the two of them are, Droog thinks, but then Clubs explains further. Apparently, while Droog was out scouting the old house, Slick devolved into a sobbing mess, and then lost consciousness. “You haven’t been around, so...” Clubs leaves the rest to be implied.  _ So I don’t know. _ “He...um...I don’t know, I think he...hit some wall, or something, because he really hasn’t been doing very well.” Tears quiver on the younger man’s eyelids and Droog wonders exactly how much he’s cried during the last few weeks. It’s always amazed him, how easily Clubs can cry, for it seems like when he’s upset there’s a constant wet sheen on his cheeks, and a sniffle punctuates nearly every word he speaks. “He...well, he’s...he’s staying here too, he’s...” Then he breaks down, weeping against the stiff sheets on Droog’s bed.

_ Oh. _

Droog wishes that Hearts would come back. He’s not good at comforting. It’s not under his jurisdiction in his place in the Crew. All he can think of to do his vaguely pat Clubs on the head.

Clubs is still a mess when the police come in, and the police are still there when Hearts returns, amidst the classic, methodical approach of inquiries that Droog has been through a thousand times. They stop when Hearts peers in, looking intimidating as ever, and Droog breathes a short sigh of relief. If he had to tell them yes, it was self defense, and yes, he does have enemies, countless ones, and they should keep their noses out of his personal business, one more time, he was going to throw himself out the window. Cops can smell weakness on you, and he knows that they’re only so bold with him because he’s injured and Clubs can’t fend them off. So when Hearts arrives, with all swiftness, he quietly tells them all they need to buzz off, which probably included something along the lines of “yer chief knows what our deals are” and “all a’ us know where yer families live.” They scatter like cockroaches when you turn on the light. He then turns to look at the two, with the wet spot on the covers and the barely restrained anguish, with Droog no doubt looking hollow and tired and empty. “He tol’ja?” he says with a heavy sigh, placing the books he has down on the bedside table.

Answering in the affirmative, Droog waits expectantly, knowing that Hearts knows Clubs isn’t capable of giving any modicum of detail at current. And as predicted, Hearts settles himself in the drab chair against the wall, as grey as it is, proceeding to explain. As it turns out, Slick was about as bad off as everyone expected. The last time Droog had seen Slick, small and injured and incoherent, was his state a solid fifty percent of his status during the days the second-in-command was gone, the other half being him vehemently denying that he needed any help whatsoever. It’s Hearts’s humble opinion that something more sinister developed when their leader locked himself in his house all that time ago, and that what happened yesterday was a similar step down. “A wall,” he says, just as Clubs had. “Some break, some new level a’ shitstorm.” The two took him here, slept here overnight, and by the time they were ready to inform Droog, the Canid had come in. All very convenient timing.

They sit in silence for a little while, Droog staring at his hands.  _ Either they’re paler or it’s the fluorescent lights,  _ he thinks.  _ Or maybe both.  _ He gathers himself before asking, “What did the doctors say?”

“Same they been sayin’,” Hearts grimly replies. “Growin’ too fast, eatin’ the real delicate parts in such a way that they can’t do shit.”

“How long?”

“I...”

“How long?” The two words sound fumbled, hindered slightly by the swelling at the stitches on his jawline. Abandoning his careful examination of his fingers, the veins and bones that his skin stretches tightly over, Droog looks at Hearts. What a coincidence. He thinks his hands are the most interesting thing in the world, too. “How long are they giving him, Hearts?”

“I...” The bigger man swallows hard, visibly, and when he speaks again his voice breaks. “They...a month, if we get lucky. But I don’t think they think luck is on our side.”

_ A month.  _ Droog lies back against his pillow.  _ And not from a gun, or a knife, or any weapon. Not from his kismesis, or his enemies.  _ In his peripheral vision he sees Clubs crawl over and rest his face on Hearts’s knee.  _ Not even from booze and cigarettes. From a goddamn lump of dividing cells in the wrong place.  _ They’re both sobbing now, and here he is, dry-eyed, the bars of the lights burning purple streaks against his vision as he lies there.  _ Seems ironic. No, not even--seems undignified. Unnatural. _ He’d often seen in his head visions of Slick’s death, and almost all of them involved a rival encounter.  _ Life doesn’t chalk up to expectations. I should know this, “especially at my age,” in doctors’ terms.  _

It’s becoming all too concrete now. He’s been given a single month by force that Droog can’t save his ass from this time.

 

\---

 

There’s two more days after that with the IV, then they judge his situation to be less dire and take him off it, replacing it  with a plethora of pills. He’s feeling stronger already, able to stand without the weakness from the blood loss getting to him. Going to the bathroom before involved a lot of very careful walking and hissing at the nurses to get away from him (he’d rather fling himself from the top of the hospital than use a bedpan), as well as dragging that godforsaken IV stand after him, so he’s grateful that progress is being made. His shoulder has been paining him, but not enough for him to want to be attached to painkillers 24/7--in fact, he thinks it should be bothering him a lot more than it is. The nerve damage, they say, while discussing physical therapy options. He pretends like he’s paying attention, takes his pills and waits for them to leave. What is physical therapy, lifting things? He can do that without paying someone thousands of dollars to tell him how to do it. It doesn’t matter to him how much interest his crewmates take in it. It’s not happening.

After a little while, when he feels that he can walk without needing to rest much, he tells his attending nurse for the day that he’s going to go visit someone. Before the nurse can say anything, he’s making his way down the hall. It’s reasonably easy, people occasionally glancing in the direction of his sling and the  looking away again as he lopes along at a fair pace. In the nigh-on labyrinth that the hospital is, that all hospitals are, it takes him some time to locate Slick’s room, but after asking around at desks and at an assortment of waiting rooms (one of which he recognizes as one they were in while Slick was in for testing all that time ago), he finally finds which wing his leader is in. At the desk in that one, he pinpoints the room. There’s a nurse exiting, a young man, who gives him a look, a poorly executed pokerface attempting to hide a quiet fear of some sort.  _ Don’t even try, kid. I know pokerfaces, _ Droog thinks, pushing past him to enter.

Slick is lying in the bed in the middle of the room, and Hearts sits beside him. Hearts turns, briefly shocked, but relaxes and stands. He knows that Droog wants to be alone with their leader right now. Apparently Droog doesn’t know pokerfaces right now, because as easily as he can read Hearts he can see that Hearts is reading him. “All yours, boss,” he mumbles, touching Droog on the shoulder as he leaves.  _  Don’t call me that, _ Droog wants to say, but Hearts is gone. That one word left a sharp aching stab in his chest, one that he didn’t expect, and tries hard to pretend isn’t happening.

Droog replaces Hearts in the chair by Slick’s near motionless form. The man looks dead already with his eyes shut, still except for the subtle movements of his chest. He knows that, just as it was with him, the fluorescents are making it seem worse, but Slick’s skin is grey, and is shadowed in places it shouldn’t be. At least five minutes pass with Droog just sitting, gazing upon Slick’s visage without any real feeling, almost like Slick is just some object of interest that happens to have caught his interest. He doesn’t really know what he  _ should _ be feeling. Sadness? Anger? Hopelessness? All of the above? He’s felt all of them at one point or another. Which should he  this time?  _ The shittiest gameshow of all ti _ Words come into his mouth, and he discards them all, because if he doesn’t know what to feel then there’s no way of knowing what he should say. “I’m sorry” falls out before he can throw it away, and he supposes it’s good enough.  _ I guess I’m feeling sorry. That’d make sense, _ he numbly muses. He says it again, whispers it,, and it does make sense. Probably.

“It’s okay,” Slick replies.

_ It’s not. _

“Hey,” Slick says. “I was wonderin’ when ya’d show up, ya piece a’ shit. Been bored outta my mind, ‘n’ all those other two can seem ta do is snot all over me.”

Smiling slightly, Droog rakes his hair back with his free hand.  _ I need a haircut soon. _ “They have been doing a lot of that late.”

“You’re goddamn right they have. Seems they can’t even look through the door without gettin’ teary. Pansies.” Slick pauses. “You look like shit. The stitches are a nice touch.”

“Aren’t they?”

“How’s the arm there?”

“Shoulder,” Droog idly corrects. He hasn’t talked to Slick like this in a long time. Light, casual. It’s refreshing. “It’s healing.”

“They told me that ya fuckin’ obliterated one a’ those guys.”

“A strong adjective, but yes, I suppose I did.”

“Don’t be modest, asshole, we all know you’re proud a’ it.” Chuckling, Slick adds, “It sounds like he took his  _ cue _ to die.”

“Slick.”

“Hey--what? That was pretty good!”

“How long have you been saving that one?”

There’s a moment of silence. “Since I first heard about the whole thing,” Slick admits sheepishly. “I a’ready told it ta Hearts ‘n’ Clubs.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Another silence, this one heavier. Light filters in from the window, grey and nonreassuring, drably late fall. Most of the trees are done with their leaves by now, having shed them to reach with skeletal branches towards the wet sky. Though he’s inside, he knows exactly how it smells out there, that mix of rain and decaying vegetation so characteristic of this time of year. It makes him wish he could open the window, but it’s made of a thick plane of glass unbroken except by a slight cross-hatching pattern, prison like in its presentation. “Slick...” he starts after brooding for some time. “There’s only one left. I killed the other two.” When his leader doesn’t respond, he continues with a strangely desperate tone, “I swear to God, I’m going to find that bastard and end his sorry life.”

“Droog.”

“What?” The word cracks in the middle, and he struggles to maintain composure.

“Ya don’t gotta prove yourself.”

_ Excuse me? _ Hasn’t that been the basis of the entirety of their relationship? Trying to prove themselves as better, as the best, as loyal and ferocious, over and over again? Testing one another’s resolve to see if they’ve lived up to the standard?  _ Maybe that’s all been in my head, _ comes the horrifying thought, and Droog’s nails dig hard into his palms.

“I don’t need ya to. It’s alright, Droog.”

_ “It’s alright”, he says. _

_ It’s never going to be alright. Jesus, can’t he see that? _

Somehow, in between that moment and the tears, Droogs lips find their way to Slick’s, and they’re kissing, so tenderly that Droog falls into its warmth, hard, wanting to live there forever. It’s scary, how much he wants this, how much he wants to show Slick that he can’t live without him. He can taste the sick, the death in each of Slick's shallow exhalations, but underneath it is a taste that's so familiar, so heart-wrenchingly a part of Droog's being that he kisses harder just so he can feel it more. It’s the taste defining the essence of who Slick is. The man he’s known nearly his entire life. His jaw hurts, but he doesn’t care. Their hands are tangling in each other's hair, and Droog knows he’s crying, but he couldn’t stop even if he tried. All he wants to do is feel Slick against him, because he doesn’t know if he ever will again.

It’s at this time that Droog experiences his already shriveled heart caving in and dying. And he knows now exactly what he’s feeling: regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE CRIED AT MY OWN FIC :)


	13. In Which a Conclusion is Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crew heads back to an old haunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~WARNING~ some violence, lots of smoking oh god

It’s the day of Droog’s release. When he walks out that door, nothing is more invigorating than a taste of air that’s not hospital-tainted. He’s tired of smelling the sick and the overly-sanitized. There are many ways in which he is trapped, but hey, at least he gets to get to work now. He doesn’t have to spend all day under lights that buzz and flicker, with activity around that never stops, not even in the witching hours. He’s got his time back. No more wasting it.

Clubs meets him on the sidewalk with, as Droog is extremely grateful to see that he remembered, a box of cigarettes and a book of matches. As Droog’s arm is still in a sling, Clubs assists him in placing a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it. The moment the smoke hits his tongue his body relaxes, and his sigh of relief is released after a second in a hazy cloud. “Thank you,” he says, and Clubs smiles up at him, faintly and nervously but smiling nonetheless. They begin to walk together, towards where Droog can see Hearts waiting. _Jesus, he couldn’t have parked any closer?_ The other man is all the way at the end of the parking lot.

They make their way slowly across, Droog pacing himself to match up with Clubs’s smaller stride. The wind blows against them, sharp and cold, and Droog tucks himself into the familiar protection of his suit jacket. It’s good to be wearing it again. How this one article of clothing makes him feel so much sharper, he’ll never know. The silence is a bit unsettling, though--Clubs usually has _something_ to chatter about, even in the darkest of situations. He looks over at his companion just as he comes to a complete stop, so sudden and with such a serious look on his face that Droog is compelled to give the man his complete attention.

“Droog?”

“Yes, Clubs?”

“You...aren’t going to try to take him on yourself, are you?”

A long pause passes between the two of them. As Droog inhales smoke, long and hard, he thinks upon the question presented to him. _Am I?_ This entire investigation had involved so little of the other two able members of the Midnight Crew that he hadn’t given it any sort of deliberation. “No,” he replies, for he realizes that even without the guilt he has caused himself by leaving them behind, he’s not nearly able enough to do much of anything without them. But he doesn’t say as much. He simply watches as relief spreads over his companion’s face.

“It was hard. Y’know, without you.”

The note in Clubs’s voice speaks years of tiredness. It’s as if he’s aged a decade in this last month. Upon examining the man, Droog thinks he might even see some grey gathering in small strands in his hairline. “I know.” It’s said by way of an apology. “It was...I thought it was for the best.”

Silence.

“I was wrong.”

A small glance up. “Really? I mean--”

Droog stops Clubs before he can fumble with correcting himself. “Yes. You and Hearts will come with me this time, if you wish to.”  
“Of course we do, Droog!” They share a look of mutual sincerity, and Clubs’s eyes glisten with welling emotion. “Of course.”

  
\---

  
Pre-attack, Droog had been feeling fairly confident. But then he let that Canid slip through his grasp. Now it’s several days post-attack and his remaining quarry no doubt knows and has moved. Out of town, maybe. Certainly not in any of those locations listed in the notebooks. It might be over, for all Droog knows, his final enemy rendered passive by the crippling weight of his entire gang’s death.

However, Droog’s not about to take any chances.

Along with Hearts and Clubs, he carefully goes through the notebook and scours those places written down. It’s not easy to get through more than a couple a day, but by the third day they’re seemingly experts. They’ve already gotten their designated two down and are moving onto a third, the sky dusky and opaque as Hearts takes a shift driving. They’ve found next to nothing, only a whisper or two from those in the area alluding to a face seen in the half-dark, and tedium has burrowed into their bones, weary wordlessness speaking as much as conversation. Droog has decided that surely the fact that the Canid’s original base, the one they left behind so long ago, was penned along with the other entries must mean something, so they’re on their way there now. There _has_ to be something there. He knows it. And if not, he and the others have nearly exhausted their list of possibilities, and all there’ll be left to do is wait and see if the Canids make a stunning comeback.

An aching sort of nostalgia has seized Droog as he steps out of the car, parked some way away from the hideout, just as it was the first time they came here. The clouds are starting to scurry away, chased by heavy gusts, and a few bright points of white are beginning to be revealed. It’ll be winter soon. He can feel it. Sighing, he gestures to Hearts, who has just appeared at his side, in a way that indicates he would like a cigarette to be lit for him. Hearts obliges. “We all know what we're doing,” Droog says through a grey haze, one that’s quickly ushered away by the breeze. “Let’s get to it so we can go home.”

They begin the walk, a tight triangle with Droog at the head. On edge despite the monotony that has been this search, they walk slowly, and Droog looks back every so often into the pools of shadow between the street lights behind them. While they may not have nearly enough tolerance to thoroughly scout every single area beforehand, Droog still doesn’t completely trust that there won’t be an ambush, solo assassination attempt or with hired hands. He will admit, though, that it feels much better as three instead of one.

The abandoned house, windows hollowly staring out from a half-crumpled face, looms at them suddenly out of the dark. If he was one to be easily startled, Droog might’ve been caught off-guard. “God, I fuckin’ hate this place,” Hearts says in a throaty growl, cracking his knuckles in a majorly subconscious movement. “Curse the day I lay eyes on it again.”

“It’ll be the last time,” Clubs soothes.

“If we do our jobs right, it will. Concentrate.” He sighs again. “Alright, keep your eyes open. We’re all sticking together. Et cetera. Let’s move in.”

They enter through the dynamited hole in the wall, stepping over detritus of various kinds, bricks, rebar. The entrance room on the ground floor is dark, smelling mildly of death. Droog raises the gun he has with the flashlight, his companions similarly pulling out objects with which to light the way. He remembers when they’d reported it empty, and it is quite that; walls have been stripped of pretty much everything, scraps of paper left behind on pieces of tape, drawers torn open and left gaping and hollow on the ground. There’s a red smear on the ground by the door on the far side, all that remains of the Canid Droog slaughtered through the peephole. With caution, they execute a wide sweep of the room, which, unfortunately, turns up nothing. There are only a couple of doors leading off and when the rooms they lead to also show no results, Droog is absolutely certain that this is going to be another unsatisfying search, just like every single one before. This place will give them nothing but the vague remnants of people long dead, worthless, little more than dust. He bites his tongue, ennui sweeping over him in a crushing wave as he motions for the two to follow him up the stairs.

But it’s not to last. For, as his vision crests over the top of the stairs, he freezes, as if the blood in his body has suddenly gone solid. In the middle of the hall sits a man with a face hauntingly familiar, a face that he last saw wild-eyed and backing down this very staircase. _It couldn’t be,_ his mind murmurs, but he knows that it is.

“Diamonds,” says their final quarry, voice rasping as if from disuse.

Hearts lunges forward, but Droog bars him, arm pushing back against the other man’s chest. It could be a trap. The Canid isn’t actively trying to kill them right at this very moment, which is somehow more of a red flag than if he was. Droog watches as the Canid rises to his feet, which seems to take some infinite amount of effort; he’s gaunt, far thinner than during their first encounter, short brown hair greasy and tangled from lack of management. He gives a smile, weary and sharp, one that Droog can tell was one of his best features at one point, carrying a ghost of past charisma with it.

"I’ve been waiting for you.”

Droog is silent, giving Hearts and Clubs looks that tell them to stay the same. Clubs has crept up the stairs so he can see, and now that he can, there’s a expression of considerable shock on his face.

“You’re here to kill me,” the Canid continues, and he shifts slightly. Droog immediately has his gun trained on his enemy. “Jesus, touchy much? I’m getting a cigarette.” He pulls a cigarette and a book of out of his coat pocket. “See? Cigarette.”

“Droog...” Hearts warns, body tense.

“I’m allowed a cigarette before I die, right?” He lights it and draws, the coal on his mirroring the coal on Droog’s. “Ahh, there we go.”

“You seem pretty sure of your death,” Clubs suddenly says. His voice quavers ever so slightly, and when Droog goes to shoot him a glare he can see that his shock has been replaced with nervousness, but also something else he doesn’t quite understand. “Aren’t you going to fight us?”

The Canid laughs, just once. “Can’t you see, little man?” he replies in a near whisper. “Even if I lived, I have nothing left to live for. Everyone I’ve ever cared for is dead. Serves us right for encroaching on the great--venerable--all-powerful _Midnight Crew.”  
_

With that, he makes a quick movement, as if to tackle one of them. In a surge of powerful muscle, Hearts meets him head-on, animal-like in his strength. There’s a tearing _crack,_ and the cigarette goes flying from the Canid leader’s hand. It seems that any noise after that fades into oblivion, and the world becomes this place of speechless awe upon being a witness.

It still feels as if they had found nothing at all. The death is hollow, somehow, almost disappointing. There was no great confrontation, no final fight or showdown. Just the three of them standing over the body, which twitches a couple of times, neck wrent at an impossible angle and a peaceful look settling on the face with half-lidded eyes. Hearts spits off to the side, his great chest expanding and contracting regularly, not even out of breath after executing the grand gesture. “Well,” he muses. “That’s that, then.”

No one responds.

Before they walk away, Droog notices that the Canid wasn’t armed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES! IT IS TRUE! THIS IS THE SECOND! TO! LAST! CHAPTERRRR!! sorry if it's a little unsatisfying, i've been focussing like 99% of my brainpower on other projects, and probably didn't give this one the tlc it deserved. an oldie but a goodie, this one is, and even if i don't like some parts of it, it has treated me well ;u;
> 
> MUCH THANKS AND LOVE to those who have followed and supported this fic for so long!! the end will come, presumably, before the new year. love you all xo


	14. The Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~WARNING~ character death

It’s early. The light that sifts through that jail window is pale, washed out, barely present and just beginning to weave its fingers into the world. He awakens, and simply stares, half-lidded eyes looking deep into the folds of the curtains. Behind him, he can feel a spine pressed against his own, and he knows that the crescent of his body is echoed by Slick. He can hear Hearts snoring mildly; rising ever so slightly to look back over his shoulder, he sees the man slumped in the chair by the door, lips parted, Clubs nestled in his lap. He can see Slick now, too, simply a mess of hair and a shoulder with the thin hospital blanket drawn up just far enough to conceal the rest of his body. Machines hum and whine quietly, sufficiently background noise now that Droog has spent so much time in this place. The scene is relaxing, peaceful, and for a brief moment everything seems to be truly in place as he lays his head back down. Drowsing, he looks at the blue threaded under the skin of his wrist, imagining that he can see the tick of his veins in the pallid shadows. Maybe he could get back to sleep, he thinks, likely for the first time in his life. He could preserve the halcyon, have it linger longer than it really lasted in his dreams. Maybe just another hour.

That’s when he feels Slick jerk, snapping suddenly, and hears him choke. The world mutes and slows, and he looks again to see his leader with eyes rolling back, hands gripping against the sheets like spiders on a web. An eternity passes as spit flies from his lips, lagging through the air in a spray that seems to hang, suspended, while Droog stares at each individual particle and wonders where they will land.

It takes a moment to realize that the machines are telling him that Slick’s gone.

 

\---

 

“Droog.”

Droog turns, hands still in his pockets. The ground almost froze today, but not enough that the funeral was called off. Regardless, it’s still cold, and his best suit isn’t necessarily his warmest suit. Coming face to face with LS, he can see the sadness in her eyes. She’s not usually one to let her emotions be known. It’s one of the reasons why he respects her so much.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says, placing her hand on his shoulder for only a brief moment. They would’ve shaken hands--that’s how they typically greet one another--but Droog doesn’t particularly feel like making his hand available to shake. “It’ll be felt by the whole of the city. He was a remarkable man.”

_ I know. _ He raises his eyes further to spot DM and TH just behind her, and he can tell that TH is trying his best not to look bored. That’s a novelty. “Thank you, all three of you, for taking that job for me,” he says. His voice quieter than he would like, a low mutter that is nearly cut off by a gust of wind that whips his jacket about his person. “It was a great help.”

“Hey, uh...anythin’ we can do, y’know, for an old friend.” DM quite visibly rolls her eyes. TH elbows her in the side, eliciting a hiss. “She’s...the dame, she’s all set now, right?”

“Yes. The Canids are dead, you’re off the hook.” Droogs tone is clipped, brutal. He didn’t exactly mean for it to come out like that, but hey, whatever works. “Send her my regards before you go.” He turns back towards the grave.

“Dem, Trench.” He doesn’t see, but from the note in her voice he can tell that LS is dismissing them. The sound of retreating footsteps confirms his assumption. LS settles quietly at his side, comfortable in silence. Across the way, he can see the figure of Sn0wman, shrouded in black and standing alone with her cigarette holder clenched between trembling figures. He thinks her eyes are red behind her veil, despite the stony look on her face. She may not have known, he realizes. They never told her that he was sick.  _ Should we have? _   “Is there anything that you need from me?”

Distracted by the hole in the ground, Droog thinks about the layers of cold earth that will soon be piled over the casket. “I wouldn’t know what to ask.”

They’re quiet once more. In Droog’s head, he sees himself, down the dark alleys and streets at night, with only three out of four. Leading in the place of one of his oldest friends. Nighttime excursions that had once been so sultry, so dangerous and exciting, now falling flat. A deck of cards without an entire suit is no deck at all. He bites his tongue, just so he can feel something, worrying the tip of it between his teeth until it throbs. Going back to the hideout after this will be a nightmare. Not to mention having to go back to Slick’s house to collect his things. The sheer emptiness that he feels is stunning, even to him, and he’s the king of replacing emotions with emptiness.

Hearts and Clubs go up to Sn0wman. They’re good men. Droog doesn’t know if he could do that right now.

“What would you think about working more closely in the future?” It takes a second for him to recognize that the words are his. Him? The Crew? Working with another gang? It’s an insane proposition, but somewhere, deep within himself, he feels it to be the right thing. He’s always liked her, and he knows it’ll be hard without him.

There’s a short pause, a hesitation.

“I think I’d like that.”

Droog takes one hand out of his pocket, at last, squeezes her shoulder in turn.

They chat for a little while longer. There aren’t many people there, just a few other acquaintances; Hearts hadn’t wanted it to be just them, and Droog had conceded, so long as they didn’t have to host them for a meal afterwards. The atmosphere is slightly awkward, because, like Sn0wman, they’re mainly rivals and hardly friends. Sleuth and his lackeys, for instance. But after he moves away from LS, Droog does his rounds diligently, letting them express their condolences whilst simultaneously knowing that tomorrow they’ll be at odds again. When he gets to Sn0wman, she looks down at him with dark eyes, and she touches his arm with a ginger, almost caring motion, her shoulders hunched slightly. Her black lipstick is rubbed off in the center, he notices, no doubt from her cigarette holder, which he thinks will bear the dark marks from her mouth. Her lids are smudged with mascara, wettened and wiped until it has become like messy eyeliner. So she has been crying. Another novelty from this crowd of faker mourners: there’s a real one, and it’s not one of the Crew.

Eventually the crowd disperses. Hearts and Clubs start to walk away as well, but Droog hangs back a moment. He stands at the edge of the grave, as if standing on some grand precipice that overlooks an ocean below, one that he could toss himself to, blessed to never think again. But it’s just a grave, and all that lies below is the shining coffin, the handful of dirt he’d cast upon it matting the lacquered surface. From the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulls the photo that he’d found, the face of the man still worn, the paper still yellowed with age.  _ To my love. _ He feels the soft edge of it with his thumb, then casts it down into the ground.

He doesn’t look back. He walks to his remaining comrades, stride long and loping, the blue sky stretching out above him and casting a thin light onto the plain headstone he leaves behind.

 

  
The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AFTER A YEAR AND A HALF IT IS COMPLETE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! this is so bittersweet for me!! i can't believe that i'm never gonna come back to this again! i'm never gonna have more in the morning to write!!  
> thank you everyone for following this through until the final chapter!!! i am so incredibly fucking grateful for every comment, every kudos, and every view!! stay tuned maybe, i'm thinking about perhaps writing a couple of things related to this fic, but who knows! love all of you, and i hope you enjoyed this fanfiction!!!!
> 
> -quietly weeping in a corner-


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